


Rumble in the Jungle

by Truckle



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 05:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 75,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18046157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truckle/pseuds/Truckle
Summary: The story begins in a rainforest in Bhangbhangduc. Along the way librarians, orangutans, witches, royalty, wee free men, travelling monks, unwilling wizards, willing locals, strange entities, talking animals, teachers and heads of government get caught up in the web. Crime, intrigue and betrayal unfold on the Counterweight Continent, which is hardly unusual. Some liberties are taken with other literary realms. It ends when it ends.





	1. Going public

Imagine ...

... a world that is flat and circular, home to a unique network of living creatures.

Now pan out.

The world is supported on the back of four huge elephants, which is handy when you think about it. Those four elephants, in turn, stand on the back of a turtle so large that words, as they often do, simply fail to describe.

Impossible, you say, but on what grounds? The laws of science? Which can always be refined and are generally more guidelines than rules. This is the wonder and strength of science. Nothing is sacrosanct. Contrary to popular opinion, not all the great explorers are out there naming mountains, which never asked to be named and, besides, the locals did that year’s ago. Some of them sit in candlelit rooms, refusing to accept the constraints of the possible, questioning the very fabric of the universe. Exploring with the mind is even more arduous than with the body.

What this means is that a more accurate description of possible is ‘what we understand.’ Which, by extension, defines impossible as ‘what we don’t understand.’ When it comes to understanding, what people know doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy universe. That makes for a lot of impossible.

So, yes, the Discworld maybe impossible, but only for those who confuse guidelines with rules and inconceivable with impossible. For the explorers, it’s just a possible waiting to be discovered.

Question everything, but always remember that whilst scepticism is important it’s dangerous in the wrong hands. Asking ‘why’ is vital but if you don’t ask ‘why not’ you’re only seeing half the picture. And always be suspicious of anyone that relies on accepted thought. Who knows whose thought you’re accepting?

There is, of course, another definition of impossible - the one people use all the time when confronted by challenge. This definition is generally translated as ‘can’t be done,’ which is the convenient version. The full version is ‘can’t be done with the resources on offer.’ A lot less would get achieved if it weren’t for the people who understood the total concept. The secret to making the impossible possible comes down to resourcing - and that usually means them. If you want something done, ask a busy person ....

... or a witch, which is pretty much the same thing.

Now pan in.

***  
Everything is connected. Even the obviously unconnected, if you think large enough and understand the systems of connectedness. You just need the right kind of mind. This fits one job description perfectly. What you really need, naturally, is a librarian.

And what the Librarian needed, other than extra shelve space and a blissful absence of library visitors, of course, was help.

***

Magrat supposed there had always been some trace of education and learning in Lancre, though the more she thought about some of the locals the smaller that trace became. Some, for example, had never read any chapter on hygiene, and as for effective management of the gene pool.... there were hamlets out there where the family tree had no branches and animal husbandry took on a whole different meaning. She had been determined to change that.

The local school was doing its best, and what the children needed right now was good role models. This had led Magrat into the realm of adult education. She was treading the path of many admirable souls before her, most of who had suffered from the same condition she did. The belief that good intentions will surmount any obstacle. The problem is that whenever you deal with people, despite your most fervent wishes, they will continue to behave as people. And, when it boiled down to it, most people were just a series of obstacles stitched together over a lifetime.

Her adult education classes had largely been a dismal failure, except for Mr Scroff, and she was pretty sure the only thing he’d actually learned was that if he stuck through to the end he’d get a cup of tea and a biscuit. Most people weren’t that strong. Oh, they thought they were, a biscuit was a powerful temptation in Lancre, but most wilted in the first hour of Magrat’s crusade against ignorance. The only reason Mr Scroff has hung in there was because of a persistent hearing problem which, for the first time in his life, he felt grateful for.

There is nothing wrong with passion in your endeavours, but it needs more than that. Every good teacher is part diplomat, part hunter and part Ghengis Ogg*. You need to understand the darkness to overcome it, and to understand it you need to have a streak of it yourself.

* A legendary figure who swept to power out of the Ramtops and at one point ruled the world. At least according to the reliable and unbiased source of Nanny Ogg.

The other thing she, and more than a few others in the education field, had yet to appreciate was that education wasn’t the same as learning. At least by her definition of education. This is the fundamental flaw of definitions, they reflect the definer, not the definee. For example, no one attended her classes on the importance of crop rotation because they all claimed to be too busy rearranging their paddocks. The ironclad way to ensure an empty adult education classroom (except for Mr Scroff) was to start by pointing out how ignorant people were and then proceeding to demonstrate that you can have intelligence and an education without displaying a scrap of wisdom.

But it was not all doom and gloom. She’d recently visited Ankh Morpork, where she’d witnessed the emergence of the public library. To a soul attuned to learning it had been a moment of pure wonder. Magrat had caught the disease and taken it home with her. She’d had no problems convincing her husband, King Verence, of the need for a public library. He, too, suffered a similar condition to Magrat when it came to educating the population. The population itself quietly put up with all of this because it kept the king busy and everyone knows that a ruler with time on their hands is a dangerous thing.

And so the first public library in Lancre was constructed. Even this may have proved to be a failure if Magrat hadn’t fallen sick with a dreadful bout of the flu. In the end she’d had to spend some time at the coast so the sea air could clear her lungs. She’d had quite specific plans about the educational content of the collection and the rules the library would have to operate under, but during her enforced sojourn something quite remarkable happened. Despite there being a total absence of books people started wandering in and sitting down. Then one day a rather battered copy of Death on the Ankh turned up. No one knew where it had come from but soon it was the talk of the town. It was true that most locals were, to use the high falutin’ term, illiterate, but the handful that could read began sharing the tale with those that couldn’t and the next thing you knew people were starting to wonder if there might be something to this reading thing after all.

Then another book appeared - The Milkmaid and the Farmer. Suddenly the talk of the town shifted from crime to romance and the value of being able to read rose, as did a few other things.

So it kept happening. The more people read, the more books appeared. Mostly they were the sort that railed against the principles Magrat would have applied in developing the collection. They were educational, but only in the broadest sense. The difference between what was unfolding and her approach was that people were actually borrowing the books. What did go almost unnoticed was that some of the burgeoning content appeared to have a more traditional education bent. Sometimes the quickest way to achieve your goal is to go the longest way, especially when people are involved. The best way to achieve social change is to include society along the way and the most important thing to understand about a public library is the word public. This is not necessarily an easy gig for a librarian bought up on the sanctity of books and the rule of order.

The Librarian was a pragmatist. It had helped that for a considerable part of his life he had been an orangutan. Orangutans have a very down-to-earth (or treetops, to be more accurate) view of survival. If something needed fixing it got fixed and if it had to be broken first before it was fixed then so be it. Breaking things when you have the sort of upper body strength that makes a tiger think twice was also a distinct advantage.

Not only did the Librarian have a deep understanding of the nature of public libraries, he was also an adept at using L-Space. Just as the world is connected, so are all libraries through the mysterious medium of L-Space. A librarian with this understanding and a willingness to take risks can open up an avenue of great power. Sure, there are dangers. Many an intrepid explorer of L-Space has fallen victim to roving packs of thesauri or walked into the lair of an enraged miscatalogued title, but if you survive the rewards are enormous.

The Librarian, like all good examples of his profession, was a researcher at heart. What he had discovered was that though all libraries were connected getting to many of them was far from easy. He had no problems visiting other university libraries. They were so large they had their own ‘gravitational’ pull. Sadly, this had been rarely the case for private libraries. Then along came public libraries and, wonder of wonders, they shone like beacons in the L-Space universe, no matter how small. The Librarian’s theory was that public libraries weren’t just a storehouse for books, they were a belief system in their own right. The public believed in them as something much more. And unlike belief in gods, where all the power lies with the deity, a vital part of this belief was owned by the believer. Even those that tended not to visit libraries still believed in them and in their own right to have access to one. It was a perfect feedback system and that made public libraries major hubs in L-Space.

It also kept the Librarian very busy. Like any apostle he began to spread the good words. If he could establish a public library somewhere it opened a new doorway in L-Space and that opened up even further opportunities. It has been said that a library can take you to new worlds. Never was a truer word spoken. Curiously, he’d also discovered that all you needed to open the doorway was to create a space and call it a public library*. Obviously, books were an important part of a library, but you could sort that out afterwards.

* But not an Information Hub, a Knowledge Store or Ideas Marketplace. These branches of the library tree were destined to wither, as they should. Anybody who thinks otherwise has no understanding of the power of the word ‘library’ and should definitely avoid a marketing career.

Lancre was proving to be one of his success stories. With a little nudge the public library had been embraced by the locals and gods help anyone who tried to take it away.

Right now though, he needed the library doorway as much as Lancre needed its library.

****  
On her return Magrat found, to her dismay, that the public library was a huge success, but not at all how it should have been. Instead of being a place of thoughtful study, filled with important treatises written by learned academics, it was filled with works that had questionable literary merit ... and with people. Instead of collections labelled Philosophy, Natural Philosophy (called science on other worlds that sacrificed beauty of description for accuracy) and Literary Classics there were sections called Crime, Romance and, horror of horrors, Horror.

‘I’m going down there to re-arrange the collection,’ she declared on her first day back.

‘Do you think that’s wise?’ observed her husband, Verence, cautiously. Years of kinging had led him to the realisation that if his subjects really liked something taking it away or changing it would not led to a happy outcome. Some royalty still subscribes to the ignore-public-opinion approach, but it’s getting harder to find examples of them each year.

‘It’s for the good of the people,’ she declared.

Verence groaned quietly to himself. ‘The good of the people’ was a phrase to light the bonfires of revolution and rates up there with declarations of cake consumption. Those who pursuit the good of the people invariably had a narrow definition of Good and, for that matter, People.

‘Perhaps before we do that we should visit the library together,’ he suggested.

Magrat nodded, already lost in the world of reclassification. ‘We’ll take Esmeralda with us.’

Magrat and Verence were dedicated to good parenting, which largely confounds the process of raising a child. It also takes time and resources. The simple declaration of taking their infant subsequently involved ten minutes of complicated packing of complicated items whose primary purpose was to support the burgeoning commercial field of parenting. It would lead to great debates for future archaeologists when they tried to figure out exactly what function the various devices served. So the wheels of industry keep turning.

***

The library was dark and, as anybody who has ever visited a library after hours knows, mysterious. Barely had the couple divested themselves of their child-related apparel than it got even more mysterious. It started with a glow above the War Stories collection, which quickly turned to a rattling of the shelves and then, with an inappropriately loud pop, the library was suddenly filled with a lot more orangutan than it had been moments earlier.  
‘Oh my,’ said Verence.  
‘Ook,’ said the Librarian.  
‘We need Nanny,’ said Magrat.  
***  
Nanny Ogg had seen a lot of the world, sometimes without leaving the bedroom. Along the way she had become something of an expert in languages. Her technique typically involved speaking loudly, using a style usually reserved for dialogue with children and a total bastardisation of the target language. Knowledge or experience of the language was not generally in evidence. Strangely enough, despite being culturally inappropriate in almost every conceivable way, it seemed to work.

She had been having a nap when the door rattled, dreaming the sort of dreams that kept curly hair growing strong, but she went from asleep to awake in a heartbeat. All witches have this power. One of Nanny’s rare skills, the sort that made her who she was, was to take her imagination with her when she awoke.

‘Right,’ she said, not wasting any time on speculation, ‘let’s see what the ape has to say for himself.’

Plenty as it turned out. Orangutan is a language limited in vocabulary but rich in nuance. Nanny was comfortable with nuance. Magrat suspected just about everything the older woman said was a double (or possibly single) entendre, though her version of nuance was often much cruder than the listener’s version. Even using the word cruder, for example.  
‘Ok,’ she said after a lengthy and animated conversation with the Librarian, which had involved plenty of arm waving and teeth baring. Nobody can wave arms and bare teeth like an orangutan, though Nanny made an admirable effort. ‘Here’s the problem. The Librarian has heard through the library network, or possibly his own skin, that the forests of Bhangbhangduc are being cleared at a wicked rate. Know anything about the country?’

‘It’s part of the Agatean Empire, or what the Agatean Empire used to be. I believe it’s a Republic now. Though the country, or whatever it is, tends to operate quite independently by all accounts. I believe it’s currently being ruled by some sort of noble, but it’s quite possibly in name only. I hear there are some powerful syndicates in that part of the world,’ replied Verence who was passionately dedicated to global politics, despite the fact that on a global scale Lancre was more of a marble. ‘The Biads,’ he added with a shudder.

‘And it’s the home of all wild orangutans,’ added Magrat, whose passion was towards the natural order of things, whether these things wanted her passion or not. ‘Those forests are also the lungs of the world.’

Nanny and Verence looked at each other. Neither understood what Magrat was referring to or how the world could be described anatomically (except in amusing proportions, of course, at least by Nanny) but what they both knew, with an ironclad certainty, was that the last thing they needed right now was Magrat explaining to them. With a mild feeling of cowardice, they nodded.

‘It needs to stop,’ continued Nanny, ‘But he needs help. He thought about the wizards, and then he thought some more. Then he remembered visiting Lancre and the witches. He figured we might be better at solving the problem than the wizards. He added that the wizards are very good at problems but their skill lies more in creatin’ than solvin’. Damn, I wish Granny hadn’t the indecency to go and pass away. We need her now. I need her now.’

‘Well, I could launch a diplomatic mission ...’

‘No time for that,’ interrupted Nanny. ‘Diplomacy has its place but right now the saws are movin’ a lot faster. We need something more cuttin’ than a strongly worded letter.’  
‘Well, what do you suggest?’ the king replied in a terse, disgruntled tone. This was wasted on Nanny, who had experienced a lot more grunt in this world than Verence would care or dare to dream of.

‘Us,’ she replied.

****

Much to Verence’s disappointment it was remarkably easy to arrange things for his extended absence. Most rulers like to consider themselves as indispensable without thinking about how the world had survived before they’d arrived on the scene. History is a sobering reminder of dispensability, which is why so many like to stay drunk on present power.  
There had been heated debate regarding the inclusion of Magrat in the party. Verence has taken the firm position that in no way should she be travelling. This meant it took him slightly longer to cave in. Naturally, Esmeralda was included. By the time total submission had occurred Nanny had returned to the library. She hadn’t packed anything more than an overnight bag. Nanny had found that the only thing she really needed to take on any journey was her personality. It was amazing what people would give her after a short time in her presence. Nanny possessed many character traits - a sense of shame was not one of them.

They rendezvoused in the library. They could have met, but as Nanny said, a rendezvous sounded a lot more promising. Not, she had to admit to herself, that you should take promises associated with rendezvouses too seriously. They were more of a traditional garnish, part of the game. Nanny had made and heard many promises at rendezvouses over the years and thank the gods none of them had come to pass. The Librarian was there waiting, pacing as only an orangutan can. He Ooked at Nanny and she translated.

‘We’re heading to the private library of the Gong. He’s the ruling noble. It’s only possible to travel there because the library is large enough to find. The Librarian says they don’t have a public library system. They maybe a republic now but it ain’t so long ago they weren’t the sort of society that appreciates educated peasants. We need to avoid the Gong and he’s not sure about the librarian there either. We’ll be met by Lei Ching. She’s a cataloguer in the library, but more importantly, she’s a commoner. This makes her a nobody, so nobody else will pay her any attention.

‘Oh, and Librarian says hold on tight and try not to think about what you’ve just eaten. You’ll probably find out soon enough anyway.’

Nanny grabbed the Librarian’s hand and she in turn grabbed Magrat’s. Verence completed the primate chain and with an ‘Ook’ that could have meant anything from Woo Hoo to Oh My God, they stepped forward into the dangerous world of books.


	2. Outside the comfort zone

There are some experiences that not even the abundant vocabulary of language can adequately describe. Fortunately the experience in their journey through L-Space was one of these. Unpleasant will have to do and be grateful that’s all you have to know.

At other times the Librarian may have navigated a longer, safer, less organ-displacing route but time was of the essence and, besides, the entry to the private library was hard to find and elusive to nail down. They twisted and turned and rolled and dived their way through a landscape that was a blend of all the dreams and nightmares that writers have woven into words over the centuries. They had no time to dwell on these glimpses as they flew past like images in a madly spun a kaleidoscope. Mostly they concentrated on keeping a range of recent meals where they should be, without great success.

As they spiralled more and more tightly towards their destination a sudden jerk ripped Magrat’s hand out of Nanny’s. She found herself, still clinging desperately to Verence, Esmeralda pinned firmly to her chest by a recently purchased baby carrying contraption, freewheeling through the literary vortex. She groped out through the rainbow bedlam, eyes clenched shut so she didn’t pass out, desperate for anything to hold on to.

Then out of the chaos something grabbed her flaying hand. The strongest, largest leather glove ever to evolve. With an arm wrenching tug she tumbled forward from the clutches of L-Space dragging Verence behind her. Never had the hard wooden floor that lay beneath her felt so good.

‘Well, that was a bugger,’ said Nanny’s familiar voice, succinctly describing one of the worst experiences of their lives.

‘And that’s what you do for a living?’ said Verence some minutes later after they had confirmed everyone was safe. Amazingly, Esmeralda appeared to have slept through the whole episode, which just goes to show that children have got more tricks up their sleeves than most adults credit them for. This is a burden children the world over share.

‘Ook ook eek,’ said the Librarian.

‘He said…,’ began Nanny but Verence cut her off.

‘I think I’m beginning to understand him,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure he agreed with your observation Nanny.’

‘Yep. He also added that only trying to get funding out of the wizards for new books is worse. Now what?’

On cue, the door to the small room they were in swung quietly open to reveal a young woman clearly unsure about what she was going to find. She smiled with relief when her eyes fell on the Librarian, which was not the reaction he typically received on sudden appearances.

The woman wore a simple shirt and trousers that the word loose did no justice to. Loose is such a negative word when it comes to appearances. The trousers were large – not clown large, but not small either. The difference was that these weren’t comical at all. They seemed perfect for the hot humid climate, evident even here in the library. You could almost call them pantaloons if it wasn’t such a silly word. 

Her hairstyle was plain and functional also, though Nanny couldn’t help noticing a hairpin or two. Nanny was a great fan of hairpins, not so much for their traditional role, more for their penetrating power, particularly around soft tissue. There was something about the sparkle in the woman’s eyes, and a determination in her face that suggested the woman knew exactly how useful hairpins could be. She had strong features, but softened. She was the sort of woman that didn’t fit the word pretty, but was right at home with handsome. Nanny nodded with approval.

The woman bowed to the ape and then to the others, in turn. ‘Welcome to Weizhi,’ she said in a heavily accented Ankhmorporkian. ‘I hope you had a pleasant journey.’

‘Not unless you add ‘un’ in front of it,’ said Nanny. ‘You must be Lei Ching.’

The woman bowed again in acknowledgment. ‘My apologies, then, for the unpleasantness of your travel.’

‘It’s not your fault, me old china,’ Nanny replied. ‘Save your apologies for when you need them.’

Nanny lived by this principle and currently had years’ worth of them stored up. She was good at collecting her own apologies but hadn’t got round to distributing them all that effectively, largely because she had such broad definitions of the term appropriate that she hadn’t come across many situations where she felt an apology was warranted. Mostly she couldn’t see why people wouldn’t just join in.

‘We must go,’ said Lei Ching, ‘before others find us. Follow me.’

And so the strangest concoction of visitors to arrive at Weizhi, a witch with no boundaries, a librarian who swung from the bookshelves, a mother who was a witch and a queen and a king who had once been a fool, wound their way out of the dark recesses of the library.

***

First there was the complicated knock on the door. Then there was the usual hurried explanations that typically arose when one of your party is, quite clearly, a large ape. But it all got sorted out as things always do. It helps when the ape is on your team.

‘This is Zhanshi,’ said Lei Ching, introducing them to the young man who had opened the door. ‘He will take you on the rest of your journey.’

‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ asked Magrat. She’d taken a liking to the young woman.

‘I’m sure our ways will cross again Queen Magrat, but for now we must travel different paths towards the same destination.’

‘Very profound,’ observed Nanny. ‘You Agateans like a bit of profundity, don’t you?’

Nanny was prone to quick racial stereotypes, which she tended to get away with because a) she did it to everyone b) there was no malice - she reserved judgement for deeds not background c) she was Nanny. But not this time.

‘Next you’ll be saying we’re inscrutable,’ interrupted Zhanshi, in a combative tone. Everything about the young man seemed combative. Even the topknot he wore seemed to convey a sort of formal defiance. ‘You foreigners are all the same.’

‘No I wouldn’t,’ replied Nanny with a grin that could cut glass, ‘’cause I have no idea what that word means. I think I could get to like you, sunshine. Nothing wrong with some fire in the belly, or other parts,’ she added with a wink that totally derailed Zhanshi’s chain of thought. Old woman weren’t supposed to behave like young woman with an appetite for, well, whatever.

‘And before you judge me too harshly on stereotyping, ask yourself what sayin’ ‘You foreigners are all the same’ is? Nothing wrong, in a broad sense, with a bit of stereotyping to figure out where the ground lines, the trick is not to use it as a rule. I’m thinking you might find we don’t fit your typical foreigners. Not by a long chalk. Besides, moulds and rules were made to be broken.’

She gave the young man another of those winks and any arguments he might have used turned tail and fled. Zhanshi had, in less than a minute, learned a lesson that many spent a lifetime assiduously not learning. Assumptions can be handy when you don’t have time for anything else and things demand a decision but outside of that they have a habit of biting you in the bum. The lesson would make him a better person, but right now what he needed was some quiet contemplative time away from that wicked wink.

Nanny watched all of this unfold. The only thing better than an appropriate wink was an inappropriate one. That and quite a few other things, she added on reflection.

‘Where did you learn such good Ankh Morpork?’ asked Verence in a desperate attempt to change the topic. He’d seen that wink before and knew things could go down from there.

‘Mr King,’ replied Lei Ching, ‘we are not a people who travel much. At least, not people of our station. We are not really even Agatean, except by conquest. Many years ago, though, one of the residents of the mainland travelled to your fair country and bought back such tales. He wrote these in a book and this inspired many of us to learn more of your world. We have been doubly lucky because for some years this traveller has lived with us here. Mostly, he’s just trying to keep a low profile. His stories of a land where ‘the people’ have some sort of say in things don’t go down well here. His name is Liang Duo Hua, but we usually call him the Teacher.’

‘I would like to meet this man,’ said Verence.

‘I hope you do, though his whereabouts are always fluid. It’s time now for you to rest. Tomorrow we head to the forest, so you can see what is happening.’

It would be nice to say they all slept comfortably that night but a quick look at the guest list squeezed into limited accommodation would suggest otherwise. Otherwise won hand’s down.

***

When sleep is largely a stranger it’s not that hard to make an early morning start, even if your fellow travellers are in a grumpy state. Only Esmeralda seemed to be in fine spirits. She had been fascinated by the strange big hairy man. With the natural trepidation that one primate feels for another Magrat had only slowly given into her infant’s insistence to be as close to the ape as possible. She needn’t have worried. There is no correlation between size and roughness, as anyone who has seen a large animal with its baby can attest. The ape, for all its bulk, was as careful near the child as it would have been around the rarest of books. So careful was he that Magrat even gave the Librarian a chance to nurse Esmeralda. Both the ape and the infant were so thrilled with this that soon Magrat was letting the Librarian do the bulk of the carrying.

Their departure has not gone unnoticed, despite the earliness of the hour, but that was inevitable in a city like Weizhi. The wheels of survival are not necessarily answerable to minimum working conditions nor do they care what the hour of the day is. At least not in Weizhi. There were those going to work early, those come home from work late, those that worked on the street and those who had nowhere else to go to except the street.

So, yes, they were observed, not by anyone, but by nobody. People the government had no interest in and preferred to largely treat as though they didn’t exist. It was possible that someone may have been a paid informer but as informers generally had a life expectancy of a cinder in snow if they ever got found out and being out yourself at these strange hours may leave you open to being an observed observer the chances were low. Nonetheless they moved quickly through the tortuous, rambling streets, past tiny stores where vendors lived their whole life in rutputty buildings that spoke of some former glory abandoned by the latest version of civilisation and consumed by the slow but persistent appetite of time. It’s not just a jungle out there.

They worked their way out of the sardined quarters of the unseen, steadily moving into those areas where being seen was part of the address. Fortunately, no one worth being seen was out at a time like this when your chances of actually being seen were slim. It’s not enough to be good looking, you need to be good looked as well.

Then, quite rapidly, the urban landscape gave way to fields. ‘We need to move quickly now,’ said Zhanshi. ‘The sun will be up shortly and we are out in the open. We need to make it to the forests as soon as possible.’

‘Tell me,’ said Verence, who prided himself on keeping up with international politics, ‘I get that we seem to be under some sort of regime here, but didn’t the Agatean Empire go through a revolution and you’re now the People’s Republic of Agatea?’

‘The People’s Beneficial Republic of Agatea,’ corrected Zhanshi. ‘Yes, there was a revolution and all things changed, or so we’ve heard. Change does not come easily to Agatea. There are many whose only interest in change is to change everything back to the way it was, and in Agatea that view has many powerful supporters. Besides, Bhangbhangduc is a long way from the heart of the Empire … Republic … and little, if anything has changed. We still have our hierarchy of power and that hierarchy still uses oppression as its weapon of choice. Do you understand?’

Verence did. He ruled a frontier kingdom and it would be hard to imagine that ever changing, even if Lancre became part of some beneficial republic. Mind you, that was more to do with the people than the rules, but nevertheless. He nodded, and they lapsed into silence.

They were jogging through the bread bowl of a large city and that meant only one thing. Incredibly flat, incredibly uniform and incredibly boring scenery. The purpose of food production is to feed bodies, not aesthetics. Sto Lat had its plains of cabbage and Weizhi had its ....

‘Swamps,’ said Nanny as she puffed along. There hadn’t been an option to bring a broomstick on the journey but Nanny kept up with the best of them. She had spent a lifetime, which equated to several lifetimes, involved in the sort of lifestyle choices that built stamina. Nanny didn’t just have to run away from trouble, she quite enjoyed running towards it. ‘Lucky they’ve found somthin’ that can grow in all that water.’

‘That’s rice, Mrs Ogg,’ replied Zhanshi. ‘It is the staple food of our diet.’

‘I’ve eaten a bit of rice in my time,’ said Nanny, ‘never knew staples were involved but you learn a new thing every day.’

Zhanshi bit his tongue, which was not his typical approach to a conversation. But then Nanny was far from typical. ‘Is she always like this?’ he asked Verence during a short feeding break.

‘Oh no,’ Verence replied.

‘Thank the gods,’ Zhanshi said with a smile.

‘Usually she’s not this restrained. Wait until she gets more comfortable around you.’

‘More comfortable?!!’

‘She’s a little reserved. Still trying to figure things out I’d guess.’

‘Reserved?!!’

Verence gave Zhanshi a sympathetic smile. ‘You’ll get used to it after a while. Whether that’s a good thing or not is another question. What you have to understand about Nanny is that she is always herself. One hundred percent proof. Like the cider she makes. The important thing, though, is that she is in your side, and there’s no one better in a tight spot than Nanny....mind you, it’s usually wise to have the light on if you’re in that spot with her.’

The sun was climbing rapidly and they had little time for conversation but plenty of time for Zhanshi to wonder what he had got himself into. An hour later a green smudge on the horizon had resolved itself into the tree line and another hour later, as the day began to turn up the heat and humidity, they were into the jungle.

Nanny and Magrat had been around swamps before and they knew how a wrong path could lead to a very watery grave, typically involving quite a lot of reptilian teeth, but the jungle was a different kettle of fish, or probably snakes. It wasn’t so much the risk of a dangerous path as finding any path whatsoever. If they didn’t have Zhanshi with them life would have been a misery and possibly a lot shorter. Somehow, amongst the vines that could shred your skin and the roots that grabbed at your legs, the man could find a passable track.

Despite the fecundity of vegetation the jungle was surprisingly quiet. You could hear the distance chatter of monkeys and the occasional scream of some animal either marking its presence felt or making the last sound of their life, but around them all was silent. As though the jungle was watching them and waiting for them to pass.

Since they had entered the green madness the Librarian had been tense with excitement and trepidation. It’s easy to know when an orangutan is tense. There’s plenty of hair to stand on end. His natural inclination was to take to the trees but he’d now become official baby carrier and he took that duty with all seriousness. It was only when they had taken another of their increasingly frequent breaks that he let out a loud ‘Eek’.

The sharpness of the sound made the other party members jump. The ape turned to Magrat and with great but rapid care passed Esmeralda over.

‘He’s heard something,’ said Nanny.

‘We’re approaching the first site,’ replied Zhanshi. ‘He will not be happy with what he sees.’

Child-free, the Librarian gave a determined ‘Ook’, and within moments was up in the branches and swinging quickly off into the enfolding foliage.

‘Something tells me we’d better get there as quickly as possible,’ observed Nanny, who had had a lifetime of knowing when trouble was just around the corner. Admittedly, the trouble often occurred around the corner she was standing in but the principle was still valid.

In the distance a large primate screamed.


	3. Can't see the forest ... or the trees

Anybody who has ever seen a war zone would never use the term to describe anything short of devastation and despair. In this case, war zone was entirely apt. A pristine area of the jungle simply wasn’t there. In its place there were rough-edged stumps where giant trees had once stood and ground ripped into foxholes that no self-respecting fox would ever inhabit.

Verence was one of those rare rulers who took a genuine interest in the economy of the country he presided over. His subjects saw this as a mixed blessing. On the one hand he would listen when they had issues, on the other he would listen even when they didn’t really want him to. Verence looked at the soil that lay like a barren plain in front of him. Despite the apparent abundance of the jungle this soil was rubbish. What would ever grow here again? Just because you haven’t been to the moon doesn’t mean you can’t imagine what it would look like.

The Librarian was standing at the edge of the devastation. Normally it was hard to tell where the arm of an orangutan ended and body began but there was no question that his shoulders were slumped in despair.

‘What happened here?’ said Magrat. She spoke softly, not out of any awe or amazement but because if she didn’t speak softly she knew she’d be screaming. Sometimes the loudest way to shout is to whisper.

‘Logging,’ replied Zhanshi.

‘But all this timber ... where does it go to?’

‘I thought you might answer that,’ he said, with a bitter edge to his voice. ‘It is shipped out of our country.’

‘Oh,’ said Magrat, and then a horrible thought sank in. ‘Oh.....’

Timber had always been in fashion when it came to furniture back home. It was largely an unavoidable choice. Crafted from whatever was available - but in recent times new timber had been appearing in the marketplace. More affordable, and It had become quite vogue to update your old chairs and tables.

‘Yes,’ Zhanshi answered her unspoken realisation. ‘This is the price we pay for your comfort.’

‘But we had no idea...’

‘Did you ever ask?’

Magrat shook her head. Humans were very good at asking questions when it came to personal disadvantage but rather poorer when it came to advantage.

‘Right,’ said Nanny, who had been listening quietly, reflecting on the new chair her son Jason had given her for her birthday, ‘Well, we can’t be having any more of that. What do we do about it?’

As they were speaking a transformation had taken over the Librarian. Orangutans are natural slouchers but every muscle in his body grew tight and he stood up. Suddenly you realised how large he really was, and how angry he could get. When it comes to terrifying sights, this rated up there with avalanches and volcanic eruptions. With a growl that was as old as evolution he lumbered across the shattered landscape. At least they didn’t have to ponder Nanny’s question too hard.

‘Follow that ape,’ she cried.

***

They stumbled out into the natural clearing some time later, bearing the scratches and bruises that are the hallmark of rapid movement through the jungle. At a point in the recent past a rainforest giant had lost its battle with a strangler vine and had toppled to the forest floor, taking others with it. The battle for this rare break in the canopy was already unfolding with new growth straining upwards but right here, right now, the sun had found its way through to this green struggle far below. As their eyes grew accustomed to the brightness they could see the Librarian standing on the carcass of the tree.

He could have screeched, he could have beaten his chest but there was no need. Every primitive sense in the travellers’ bodies told them they were already being watched.

‘Eek,’ he said loudly, and then when there was no obvious movement, more softly, ‘Ook.’

It sounded like a plea and slowly out from the trees emerged another large ape. It stood on the edge of the clearing, eyes roving around but always returning, with deep intensity, to the Librarian. ‘Ook, ook,’ it said, eventually.

‘Ook, eek,’ he replied and suddenly the awkwardness was broken. The ape knuckled further into the clearing, always watching the others with suspicion. A heated dialogue broke out.

‘What’re they saying?’ Magrat whispered to Nanny.

‘Bit hard to follow,’ she replied. ‘She’s got a strong accent.’

‘She? How do you know that it’s a she?’

‘Because I got eyes ... and don’t be lookin’ to closely either. You can tell from the body language.’

Nanny was a master, or perhaps more accurately, a mistress of body language. She could write a book about it, though it would probably contain a lot of pictures and shouldn’t be read by the faint-hearted.

‘That was their part of the forest we saw earlier.’

‘Their? There’s more than one?’

On cue, the female orangutan beckoned into the forest behind her and out of the shadows emerged, in a way that told you you could have seen them all along but you wouldn’t have had a hope of doing so, two smaller apes, one clutching a baby to her breast.

Later introductions were made and the story told. The matriarch was Ratu, the younger ape with child was Kelopak and her baby was named Harapan. The last ape, was Sungai. They had been living in this area, as a troop, with an older male, Ketua. When the loggers arrived Ketua had gone to confront them. A large male orangutan should have nothing to fear, and he didn’t, but the world had changed. He never came back. Ratu knew everything had gone wrong and they fled deeper into the forest.

‘That’s a damn sad tale,’ observed Nanny, ‘especially when you’ve seen what the loggers did to the place. Seems to me we’re here and there’s a problem. How about we make ourselves someone’s problem?’

‘How about we start by tracking them down,’ said Verence. ‘Do a bit of observing and then make our move?’

Verence didn’t mind excitement and risk as long as it was mostly happening to other people. He was all in favour of planning, a habit that wasn’t heavily reflected in his fellow travellers. When it comes to dominant species orangutans and witches sit high up the list, which makes them creatures of action. That’s not to say they won’t plan, but sometimes that planning only extended to ‘Let’s poke it and see what happens.’

In this instance though, in the general absence of anything worth poking, the others agreed to an initial assessment before butt-kicking. Fundamental to the plan of action was that butt-kicking was happening at some point no matter what.

The orangutan troop led the way into the forest. As the rest of the party clambered after them Magrat turned to Nanny. ‘Have you seen how that young female ape, Sungai, has been looking at me?’

‘Yes,’ Nanny replied.

‘What’s it all about?’

‘You’re a witch, figure it out,’ Nanny said.

Witches are all about helping others, but they don’t have a lot of truck with helplessness. Not when you’ve got a brain to think with and, especially, not if you’re a fellow witch. A witch who can’t sort out her own problems might start to think she is nothing more than a woman with faded clothes and a pointy hat. Worse still, other witches might start thinking the same. It’s probably more accurate to say witches are all about helping others ... and testing everyone, themselves first.

Magrat knew all this. She liked to think of herself more of a modern witch who was prepared to acknowledge her own shortcoming and ask for assistance and guidance in the hope of self-improvement. This explains why, in the pecking order of witches, and there’s plenty of peck in that order, Magrat was always at the bottom, propping the others up. The concept of self-improvement is alien to most witches. It’s largely what makes them good witch material and also explains how some of them turn as black as midnight.

The curious thing about Magrat was that she knew all this and yet she persisted with her world view. Think about that. Nanny did. Nanny knew Magrat was a good witch and a good queen ... and you didn’t get that way without having something solid at your core. Like an almond inside chocolate, or a dagger in a sheath. She just needed to be reminded of it occasionally.

After a long silence, punctured only by the snap of branches, the slaps of biting insects and the cursing of all things tropical, Magrat said ‘It’s about Esmeralda isn’t it?’

‘Yep.’

‘Sungai wants to be a mother .... no, it’s more than that.’

‘Yep.’

‘She was a mother and now she’s not. You can see the sadness in her. And the desire. She wants my baby.’

‘Yep and nup.’

‘What?’

‘She never quite made it to motherhood. Lost the child before it was born. And she doesn’t want your baby, she wants her own. Well done, by the way, in almost getting there.’

This was also the way of witches. Praise was something given grudgingly and usually with a little sting in the tail. Nanny was better than most but still couldn’t help herself.

‘How did you figure all that out? How can you be sure?’

‘Magic.’

Magrat pondered this reply. After a while she said ‘And by magic you mean knowing something that other people don’t.’

Nanny remained silent.

‘You overhead something the orangutans were saying but didn’t share it with me. Right?’

‘Spot on, sunshine.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me in the first place?’

‘Because figurin’ things out is good exercise for the brains and, besides, it made the trip go faster. You can’t blame an old lady for having a bit of fun can you?’

Nanny was right, of course. She usually was and when she wasn’t it was wonderfully spectacular anyway. But the part that really shut Magrat up was trying to unimagine the images that had popped into her mind when Nanny referred to having a bit of fun. Nanny wasn’t very familiar with ‘a bit’, though she was highly knowledgeable when it came to ‘bits’.

***

Two days they travelled before the world turned upside down. That’s time enough to get to know someone. After initial shyness Sungai had begun to move closer to Magrat whenever she had the child. When others took turns carrying Esmeralda she seemed far more reserved, distant. And the first time the Librarian took a turn she clearly became agitated.

On the first evening she swayed over to Magrat who had just finished feeding Esmeralda and watched with fascination.

‘She’s really quite enjoying these solids,’ she said, knowing that Sungai wouldn’t understand the words but that wasn’t important right now. Understanding comes in many different shapes and sizes.

‘I’ve seen some plants here that I’m sure we can add into her diet. It’s totally vegetarian, of course. I just need to get the balance right.’

Sungai moved around until she was facing Magrat. She found herself staring into the deepest and possible saddest eyes she’d ever seen. If eyes were the window to the soul, then Sungai’s soul was in a lot of trouble. But Magrat was a witch, and that meant having good eyesight. Good enough to see hope, and that’s not always that easy to spot.

‘Ook?’ said Sungai.

‘Nanny?’ asked Magrat.

‘She wants to know why you let others hold your baby,’ Nanny replied, ambling over.

‘Because I trust them. It’s one of the hardest things to learn as a mother. Trust in others.’

Nanny went to translate for Magrat but Sungai shook her head. The language of mothers has always overcome more mundane linguistic barriers. Sungai held Magrat’s gaze and then gestured first at the humans and then the orangutans, resting mostly on the Librarian before finally pointing to herself.

‘Seems to me she’s asking me if the orangutans are in the circle of trust,’ said Magrat

Nanny nodded. After all she was as experienced at mothering and grandmothering as anyone else on the Disc.

Magrat thought. Sungai and Nanny watched. And waited.

‘When I think about why I’m here and what I’ve seen when it comes to humans and orangutans I don’t know why I even hesitated,’ she said pointing at the three apes and smiling. ‘Yes I trust them.’

Sungai stared at her intently and then said ‘Ook?’

Humans think they’re hotshots at just about everything but when it comes down to fitting emotion into a single word orangutans win, hands down.

The world held its breath, at least this small part of it did, and what is the world other than millions of smaller worlds held together by fundamental forces and what is emotion other than a fundamental force? Magrat blinked back the tears. Kindness is not weakness. Sometimes it’s the bravest thing you can do. ‘Of course, you can carry Esmeralda,’ she replied when she got her voice back.

‘Damnit,’ said Nanny, wiping at her face. ‘Got something in my eye.’

Magrat finished feeding Esmeralda and made sure she was wrapped up tight. Then she picked her up and turned to the ape. With the sort of care that could be mistaken for ceremony she extended her arms and offered Sungai the child. With the sort of care that definitely could pass for ceremony, Sungai, ever so gently, accepted the offering.

‘Damnit,’ said Nanny, again, more softly this time.

There should be more moments like this in the world.

****

When we aspire to be the best great things can happen, but if this aspiration leads to the desire to be the best tears will follow.

When we pursue the good of all great things can happen but if this pursuit leads to the desire of personal gain tears will follow.

When we define personal happiness through personal success and think in terms of winning and losing tears will follow.

When the obverse of success is always seen as failure tears will follow.

If these tears belong to other people this only makes it worse.

Great leaders know true leadership lies in humility and empathy. Bad leaders believe in confidence, certainty and determination.

There are bad people and there are good people, the problem with humans is that they have a remarkable ability not to see the difference. This is, of course, advantageous to the bad people, so they’ll do everything to keep it that way.

put down the scroll he had been reading and looked up. Jahat had entered the room, smiling. He always seemed to be smiling, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that meant anything good for anybody else.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

‘A treatise by The Teacher.’

‘That man is a fool. His teachings undermine all your good work, and that of the Emperor… Republic. The world would be a better place without him. I have good news. The rehabilitation of the jungle is going well. Soon we will have more land to farm.’

Perhaps it was hard to tell who the bad people were but In the case of Jahat there wasn’t any room for confusion. Jahat was, as private-school poets might say, a Bad Hat.

Ambition is the most dangerous of human traits. It even beats stupidity, and that’s saying something. Ambition thrives on stupidity. It’s not that ambition is a bad thing, it’s just that it ends up in the wrong hands. Jahat was, in every sense, the wrong hands.

‘I get regular reports on the clearing but I have heard little on the use of the land cleared,’ said he Gong.

‘That will follow, in good time.’

‘Perhaps you could also tell me more about these shipments I hear about, leaving our harbour regularly?’

Jahat’s smile grew wider, just as a crocodile’s can. ‘I wonder why you feel is necessary, master, to seek out other reports than my own, but then you always know best. I will look into it.’

‘That would be good,’ replied the Gong. ‘I suggest you do that right away. Thank you. You may go.’

Ah, there it was. Jahat was good at hiding his emotions but there was the spark of hatred at being dismissed. He bowed tightly, spun on his heels and left without another word.

The Gong sighed. Maybe the Empire had revolved into a Republic, but bureaucracy is incredibly good at resisting change. The new Republic needed to operate and that meant keeping much of the structure in place, at least for now. It was a Republic in name but still, largely, an Empire in practice. This meant you took on the whole cumbersome structure. It was like marrying into the biggest family of dysfunctional in-laws ever. Maybe this would change, with time, as the Republic reached out into the fringes of the Empire, but the Gong had his reservations. He’d heard the People’s Committee had its hands rather full at the moment, which is what happens when you overthrow powerful people. They tend to push back. It would be nice to think the Committee could find a simple solution, but Agatea had evolved into complex too many centuries ago for simple solutions to survive.

Appointments to senior positions had been given to members of important families. The Gong had been made Governor of Weizhi because of his birth. What qualification was that for running anything? It had happened all over the Empire and all over the Empire a network of senior officials had evolved, whose role, ostensibly, was to help royal family members and their connections, many of whom would struggle to find their bottom with both hands, to govern.

This led to the second problem. People like Jahat. Oh, they knew how things ran, all right, they ran exactly how they wanted them to. Which led to the fundamental problem. There was no need, in this model of control, to govern with any thought for anybody else but yourself. It was a power game and once power comes into it any attempts to run anything it will all end in tears. He wasn’t sure if he’d read that from The Teacher or made it up himself, but it certainly held water.

The Gong’s biggest personal problem was that he did care. He did want to be a good leader. He had read whatever he could on other leaders. The one that fascinated him was the Patrician in Ankh Morpork. He was, to all outward appearance, a despot...and yet he never seemed to build up personal wealth and never put himself on a pedestal. There probably wasn’t a statue of him anywhere. And however hard his decisions may appear, they always seemed to work out for the people in general. Beneath all that apparent heartlessness, and there were plenty of observations on whether he had a heart at all, you could also explain his actions through humility and empathy.

People crave in their leaders certainty and confidence but what they really needed was understanding and uncertainty. Anyone who tells you the solutions to life’s complexities were simple was selling you something you really shouldn’t buy.

His good works. Ha. Underlying all these fundamental problems was the biggest of all. What was he going to do about it?


	4. Middens and windmills

It was the next day that all things turned to manure. It had become increasingly obvious that they were approaching another forest clearing.

‘Remember,’ said Verence, ‘no matter what we come across we observe and we plan our next move.’

Like so many good plans it latest right up to the moment it was implemented. What they did have time to see was an already denuded landscape. There were teams of buffalo and large wagons laden with timber. Moving around the site were an, as yet, unspecified number of workers, along with more seriously attired individuals. In this case serious didn’t mean formal suits and ties, it tended more towards the implication that when it came to trouble they would be particularly happy to hand it out. The focus of attention was currently a large jungle giant. At its base a team was working away, dragging a massive saw back and forth.

‘Right,’ said Verence. ‘The plan. Now what I think we need to do to assess our assets, align those strengths in a series of ....’

That was exactly when the plan ended and the manure began. Perhaps unfairly, librarians are stereotyped as fairly quiet introverts who only get their dander up if there is excessive noise, and even then the dander generally extends to a glare or a ‘talking to’. 

The Librarian chose a different option. Being a large ape gave him some additional choices not typically available to others of his profession. With a roar that sounded strangely like ‘Leeroy Jenkins’ the Librarian knuckled into the clearing - a primate possessed. 

‘Oh my gods, he just ran in,’ said Verence. ‘Ok, let’s move to plan B.’

‘Plan B?’ cried Nanny.

‘The one where we all rush in.’

‘Sounds like a good plan to me,’ Nanny replied, hitching up her britches and charging after the ape. There’s nothing like a witch with hitched britches to get things happening. Moments later the clearing was invaded by one of the more unusual assault forces seen for some years.

At first this rather direct approach seemed to have some traction. Surprise can give you an edge but the problem with surprise that it must, by definition, cease to be a surprise fairly rapidly. This is known as the Law of Diminishing Surprise. 

The problem wasn’t the workers. When it came to sourcing labour in the Agatean Empire the one thing the organisers never factored in was the rights of the workers. Technically it wasn’t slave labour but that was just a technicality. Fear is effective at generating commitment, as long as an even larger fear doesn’t throw it’s hat into the ring. When a pack of enraged apes and some very strange associates invade your workspace with clearly aggressive intent it’s amazing how uncommitted you can be when the trouble hits.

The problem was the guards and overseers. In the first instance it appeared that things might have been evenly matched or, quite understandably, been seen to favour the side with more enraged orangutans but then the second instance came into play. Despite being largely unarmed the loggers fought like demons. Where they were, they were no longer there. They moved suddenly and struck without warning, using hands, feet, legs, knees and heads. The invaders soon found themselves pummeled and regularly flung to the ground. This is not a situation any of them were accustomed to, especially the Librarian. 

Verence and Magrat realised what was happening, largely because Verence had once accidentally ordered a book on martial arts instead of what he thought was a guide to the mysteries of the boudoir.

‘They’re trained in Eki Thump,’ shouted Zhanshi. ‘We can’t beat them,’ he screamed over the chaos. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We lose,’ cried Nanny, ‘but we do it on our terms. There’s only hope for a few of us. The apes. They need to get out of here.’

‘But Sungai has Esmeralda,’ shouted Magrat as she grappled with one of the guards who clearly had no particular regard for the weaker sex. Not that Magrat did either and was accounting for herself rather well. In the moment when the planning had gone awry Sungai had been nursing the child and in the madness that followed the child was still with her.

‘You’re not just a mother,’ Nanny called back, ‘you’re a witch. Look around you. Where do you think the safest place is for Esmeralda?’

Even in the middle of battle there can be strange moments of stillness. Suspensions of time. Nanny’s words flowed through Magrat’s mind like a river and like a river she knew the course they would take.

‘Just do it,’ she cried out before she had a chance to change her mind.

‘Good girl,’ Nanny cried and then began shouting. Thanks to a lifetime of parenting and a propensity to sing with gusto, especially when liquor was present, Nanny had a good set of lungs. Even over the racket of the conflict her voice cut through like a knife, in a loud string of ooks and eeks.

At first there was confusion and resistance amongst the orangutans but then the matriarch, who was not just an ape but a mother, took charge. In a series of moves that were only possible when you have arms like sledgehammers on rubber bands, she simultaneously drove the attackers back and pushed the Librarian to the tree line. Sungai and Kelopak were already there. They had stayed out of the fray to protect the babies.

As they disappeared into the jungle Sungai turned and her eyes met Magrat’s. What passed between then cannot be described in even complex words but words were never meant for moments like these. Magrat nodded, her heart breaking, and Sungai returned it.

‘I’ll find you,’ Magrat shouted to both Sungai and Esmeralda and Sungai understood every word and knew they were true. One way or another.

A voice barked at them in Agatean and those that had remained turned to face the enemy.

‘What’d he say?’ asked Nanny who was prepared to concede that her mistressary of foreign languages took second place to native tongue.

‘What have we got here?’ translated Zhanshi.

***

They were taken away in a large cart pulled by some of the oxen. Anyone who has ever claimed to have the worst journey of their life and hasn’t travelled by oxen has no idea what they’re talking about (unless, of course, they have travelled by camel). A distinctive feature of this mode of transport, especially across rough ground, is that you rapidly become aware of internal organs you didn’t know you had. This awareness is accompanied by the growing suspicion that some form of failure of these newly discovered organs may not be far away. Even by other oxen-drawn transport experiences this was a bad one because its passengers were in a bleak mood.

‘Oh gods,’ said Magrat through tears, ‘what’s going to happen to Esmeralda?’

Verence, who shared his wife’s distress and knew what she wanted, held her tight. Nanny, who knew what Magrat needed, took the other approach. This is, fundamentally, the nature of witches. 

‘Seems to me she’ll be damn safe,’ she said. ‘Can’t think of a safer place in a jungle then surrounded by large apes.’

Magrat glared at Nanny. ‘What about all the lions and tigers and bears ... oh my.’

‘There aren’t any lions in the jungle,’ said Verence in a distracted tone.

Magrat turned her glare on him. ‘So, what you’re saying is there are definitely tigers and bears out there. Thank you very much for making me feel so much better.’

Nanny could have hugged Verence. What they didn’t need right now was a distressed witch. That’s a dangerous combination. What they needed was an angry witch. They’re just as dangerous but at least they have a sharp end. The trick is to point it in the right direction.

‘Now that we’ve agreed Esmeralda is safe, ‘specially from lions, what’s going to happen to us?’ she said to Zhanshi.

‘If we’re lucky, the dungeons, if were not...’

Nanny cut him off. ‘Great. So the first thing we have to do is be lucky. Witches are experts at luck. We just have to make sure ours is good and theirs is bad. Pretty sure they’ve never dealt with witches before, hey Magrat?’

‘No,’ Magrat replied. She said it softly but everyone leant back a bit. Kindness is not weakness and softness can be hard as nails.

Nanny smiled, but only on the inside.

***

Arduous is a word that doesn’t get used often and nor should it be. It should be reserved for particularly challenging experiences. The rest of the journey was arduous. To fill the liver-pounding time Zhanshi gave them a richer background on Bhangbhangduc. For most of its history the island kingdom had been just that. An island with little interaction with the outside world. But then the Agatean Empire, which had largely been inwardly focussed, fighting battles for control, saw one family rise to power and ruthlessly deal with all opposition. With its internal matters resolved, one brutal way or another, the Empire turned its gaze outwards.

The problem with power is that once you have it there will never be enough. The Empire saw a chance to expand and acquire the wealth of the island. Most importantly, this wealth included the people that lived there. You could do a lot with extra workers, especially if they didn’t have any say in the work conditions. The Agatean Empire didn’t have a word for slave because they didn’t need one.

Once they had conquered the island they appointed a governor, or Gong. Naturally, the Gong was one of the royal family. Naturally, the Gong did everything he was told to do. Soon there were fiefdoms across Bhangbhangduc, all ruled by appointments from the Court. Communities that had once worked together became smaller versions of the Agatean Empire with rivalries being played out through the lives of the subjects.

Along with this came the rise of organised crime. The Biads. The curious thing was that instead of trying to crush them, the Agatean Empire worked with them, much as groups of predators the world over do, to secure a meal. There was nothing formal, of course, because the informal worked better. The Biads gained power and the Empire gained access to resources they never questioned the source of and another system to make sure that the people weren’t just pressed, they were completely oppressed.

In theory this should have all changed, come the Glorious Revolution, but as Verence and the others were becoming rapidly aware, the current Revolution seemed to be going round and round in circles, as revolutions tend to, and the radii of these circles hadn’t reached Bhangbhangduc and, possibly, might never do, if the old, deposed forces of the Empire had anything to do with it.

‘But there are those of us who fight the good fight, until the Revolution comes to us,’ said Zhanshi lowering his voice even further. ‘There are those of us who work against the Gong and his forces. We follow the words of wisdom of one known as The Teacher and hope one day to regain our independence. But it is a dangerous game and you never know who is truly your enemy.’

‘Or your friend,’ observed Nanny. ‘That’s one of the nasty ways buggas like these ones keep you under control. You’ve probably got thousands of friends but none of them are prepared to say nuthin’.’

‘Anything, Nanny,’ said Magrat who, like any witch, was part teacher. 

‘No thanks, other than a pint if you’ve got one,’ replied Nanny with a twinkle in her eye. Like any witch, she was also part juggernaut. In Nanny’s case it had a habit of being a large part.

‘What about this Gong?’ asked Verence, who was trying to get his head around such an alien approach to government. Sure, he was supreme ruler of Lancre by birthright, but it wasn’t wise to remind his subjects of this.

‘He’s a bit of a mystery,’ replied Zhanshi. ‘He seems to stay in his quarters a lot. Only comes out for official functions and then he’s always flanked by Jahat. Jahat is the senior civil servant. He’s a nasty one and pretty much runs everything. Below him the Gong has a series of barons who run all the smaller communities. We call those Nans.’

‘Nans?’ said Nanny with interest.

‘They’re not what you’re thinking,’ said Zhanshi quickly. ‘Nothing like you.’ Nothing could be quite like Nanny Ogg.

Nanny smiled. She quite liked being unique, but she wondered how much of the world Zhanshi had really seen. Nanny may have been at the pinnacle of nanniness but there were plenty of old ladies that would give her a run for her money. The problem around here was where to find them. Life expectancy in Bhangbhangduc didn’t look to be too high.

‘You also mentioned The Teacher,’ said Magrat. She was happy for any discussion that could distract her from thinking about Esmeralda too much.

‘He is the one who gives us inspiration and keeps us strong,’ replied Zhanshi with whispered passion. ‘He writes of how the world should be and his words are full of wisdom. The government can’t stand him and he has to move around, or so I’ve been told. No one knows where he is and possessing his writing will get you in serious trouble.’

‘I’d like to meet him one day,’ said Verence.

‘Not much chance of that Mr King,’ Zhanshi replied. ‘No one has heard from him for months.’

***

They were transferred on the edge of a city to a smaller enclosed carriage and sometime later they were delivered to their destination.

‘The city dungeons,’ Zhanshi commented as he looked through the barred window. ‘No surprise there.’

The four of them were bundled downstairs. Nanny and Magrat were forced into one small cell. It smelt. The dungeons in Lancre also smelt, but this was because livestock was often housed in them, especially during the colder months. They hadn’t been used to retain anyone for years (except for an incident involving elves and Mr Scroff, of course, who’d found them a comfortable place to relax after an evening of education with Magrat). That was a natural smell. In a sense so was this one, in the same way a rotting corpse is a natural part of the cycle of life.

‘Now what?’ said Magrat. ‘What possible plan do we have?’

She was still angry. Angry at Nanny for letting the apes take her child. Angry at Verence, rather unfairly, because he hadn’t stopped this happening. Angry at the world in general and the Agatean Empire in specific.

‘Well,’ said Nanny, who had long ago learned that tact is only useful in some circumstances and didn’t have to apply to her, ‘at least Esmeralda is in a better place, don’tya reckon. Phew. Smells like whatever died in here was already up the bottom of something else that had died.

‘I reckon the best plan is to wait. Pretty sure there will be someone important come to check us out. News like us travels fast and imprisoning foreigners is risky business. The bigwigs will have to figure out what we’re up to and how disposable we are.’

Nanny was right and it didn’t take long.

‘So,’ said a sibilant voice in rather good Ankh Morporkian, ‘who do I have the honour of speaking to?’

It’s a curious fact that those of nefarious intend lean towards sibilance. No one knows why and it doesn’t do snakes any favours at all. There’s no indication snakes are evil, except through human reflection. The animal kingdom suffers from this reality on a regular basis.

‘I’m Nanny.’

‘Ah, a Nan?’

‘No, not a Nan, a Nanny,’ she continued. ‘Heard about your Nans, though. Reckon they might be surprised to add me to their ranks.’

‘And what is a Nanny?’

‘Someone you don’t want to get on the wrong side of.’

‘It seems a bit presumptuous for you to threaten me from the ‘wrong side’ of a prison door.’

‘Yeah, makes you think, doesn’t it? Oh, and I’m a witch. Know anything about them sunshine?’

‘Only that they are charlatans who play on simple minds with trickery they call magic.’

‘Cor, you do know us then. What’s a charlatan? Something like a sultan I’m guessing. I’m not fond of dates, by the way in case you think I eat ‘em. Give me a nasty case of galloping centaurs, if you know what I mean.’

There was the sort of silence from beyond the cell door which often followed a conversation with Nanny. A deep processing blending with disturbing realisation, often accompanied by unwanted imagery.

‘How did you know we spoke Ankh Morpork?’ Magrat asked, taking opportunity of the pause.

‘I am not the sort of person who comes to a situation unprepared,’ hissed the voice, though with a slight hint of uncertainty. The conversation with this Nanny thing hadn’t exactly gone to plan. ‘And who are you?’

‘I’m the queen of Lancre,’ replied Magrat with all the haught she could muster.

‘Ah, a queen. Really? Of a country I have never heard of. Convenient.’

‘Yes, she is,’ snapped Verence. ‘She’s my wife, which makes me, Verence, the King of Lancre. And I demand to see the Gong.’

There was a pause before the voice spoke again. ‘I do have to admit you sound like a king. Demanding from a cell, no less. This may require a slight adjustment of plans. We must respect international diplomacy, or test the depth of truth. Guards.’

The door swung open and two large men, who must have been a trial during childbirth, entered. 

‘Bring me the foreign king,’ said the tall, thin figure that they could barely make out in the bright torchlight. There was a moment of struggle and Verence was dragged from the cell before the door was slammed shut.

‘What about the others? What about my wife, the queen?’ shouted Verence.

‘They will stand as some sort of assurance that you cooperate fully with us. We only have your word on your royalty, after all.’

‘Just go darling,’ Magrat shouted above the scuffling. ‘It’s not like there’s much else you can do in this cell anyway.’

Verence stopped struggling and straightened his shoulders. He was surprisingly tall when he did this. Years of time spent as a Fool had ingrained the sort of natural slouch that comes with making yourself as small a target as possible. He’d got better at standing taller thanks to the demands of kinging but there was still room to move.

‘Take me to your leader,’ he stated. ‘I will speak to none other than the Gong.’

The tall figure smiled. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Almost believable royal arrogance.’

He turned to occupants of the cell. ‘And as for you, there’s not much else you can do either.’

The man was still laughing to himself when Nanny’s voice drifted up the hallway after them.

‘Wanna bet a fiver? Witches, remember.’

***

Jahat reviewed his options as he marched the captive away from the cell. Convention suggested torture and convenient disappearance. The problem was this situation was anything but conventional. There was even the possibility of international issues and opportunities. A person in the right place at the right time could go far.

He was a greater believer in rules, particularly when you were on the right side of wielding them but he hadn’t got to where he was today without some appreciation of when to ignore convention. It really came down to risk and advantage which are slippery things to nail down. Decision making was just another way to describe gambling. He rolled the dice, metaphorically, and placed his bet, again metaphorically, before they had stopped spinning.

‘Come, your majesty, let us see what the Gong has to say about your unannounced arrival.’

As for the ‘witches’, he laughed again, with the barest hint of doubt.

***

‘That man’s a knob in every sense of the word,’ said Nanny as Verence was escorted away.

‘That’s Jahat. He’s the power behind the Gong. Why did you say that thing about witches to him?’ asked Zhanshi. ‘Do you really have magical powers? Why aren’t we using them now?’

Nanny turned to Zhanshi and even in the almost-darkness her eyes sparkled. ‘Young man,’ she said, ‘what makes you think it hasn’t already begun?’

‘But why don’t you just blast down the door and we all fly away from here? Wouldn’t that be a blow for freedom?’

‘Never been a big fan of blows when it comes to freedom. Save them for when you really need ‘em I say, and right now ain’t that time. Right now is the time to see what else is going to happen. Just glad I’ve still got tobacca on me. Lucky they didn’t search me,’ she added with what sounded like mild disappointment.

Nanny was the kind of person that made captors think twice about searching her. Three times, actually. The first thought rang smack into the face of the second thought regarding consequences and they both gave way to the third thought which was, typically, you’re not paid enough for that sort of risk.

Nanny rummaged around in the disturbing depths of her dress and pulled out a packet. She’d been saving this for a rainy day and today she could definitely see storm clouds. There was a flash of light in the darkness and then a noxious smell drifted around the cell.

‘Is that magic fire?’ asked Zhanshi hopefully.

‘The more you believe that the better for all of us,’ replied Nanny between puffs. ‘Didn’t want to smoke around Esmeralda, y’know,’ she said to Magrat. ‘I’d hate to be a bad influence on her.’

The universe registered this statement on the scale of outrage and wisely decided not to comment. Magrat did the same. Magrat was a witch and she knew in her skinny bones that something was unfolding. It wasn’t necessarily magic in the classic sense but in the witchy sense the air wasn’t just thick with smoke.

‘The guards will punish you for this, you know,’ said Zhanshi, with a cough. ‘They’ll smell it for sure.’

‘Hmmm,’ replied Nanny, ‘those and others. Besides, have you heard any guards recently?’

She was right. After the noisy removal of Verence things had grown quiet. The only sound they could hear was a gentle scraping and swishing. This was getting steadily nearer. Magrat went to the cell door and peered out. The only person out there was an elderly man with a broom, sweeping his way down the corridor.

‘Hello,’ she called out. The old man looked up and smiled at her, then nodded, sweeping closer until he was just outside the cell.

‘I don’t suppose you could help get us out of here, could you?’ Magrat continued. ‘I don’t think he understands a word I say,’ she added.

The sweeper peered in through the bars, still smiling and nodded directly at Nanny. She nodded back.

Zhanshi moved to the front of the small room and said something in Agatean. The sweeper continued to smile and to nod in Nanny’s direction.

‘I think he may be dumb,’ the young man observed.

Nanny said nothing but drew her pouch of tobacco out and handed it through the bars. The sweeper took the offering with an obligatory nod and took a slip out thin paper from his robe. He then proceeded to roll a cigarette, with amazing speed. This cigarette was to other cigarettes what a street cat is to the vast panoply of feline creation. All lumps and pieces hanging out but you knew it was the sort of cigarette that would have a distinctive, malodorous presence.

‘Dumb, not stupid, hey me old china,’ said Nanny. ‘And not even dumb.’

‘How did you know, Mrs Ogg?’ the sweeper said after a pause.

‘How did you know I was Mrs Ogg, Lu Tze?’

‘Ah, the question for a question game. Let us say I keep a finger on the pulse of the cosmic flow.’

‘You call that an answer? That’s just a load of gobbledegook.’

‘True, but very good gobbledygook, wouldn’t you say? The sort we History Monks are famed for. Would you accept that I keep my ear to the ground and make sure I’m where I need to be? Besides, this is very fine scrag and I’d come a long way for that. But you knew that didn’t you?’

‘Let’s just say that when I listen I use my whole body. You can’t go around fiddlin’ with history without witches knowing about it. Reckoned there had to be one of you round here somewhere and I figured it might be you.’

‘Hang on,’ Magrat chimed in. ‘How come I’ve never heard of these History Monks?’

Nanny gave her the sort of look that might have said just because you look around doesn’t mean you’re observing. And what you don’t know is an ocean compared to the bucket of knowledge you slosh around on others.

But she didn’t say this, instead she went with ‘When it comes to history, dearie, I’ve got a lot more of it then you have.’

That seemed to work. It usually does with younger people who like to think they understand the new world so much better without thinking what the old world may have learned along the way. Magrat could accept the sheer accumulation of experience but would have protested the implication that wisdom was involved as well. It was ever thus. Otherwise why would humanity be such masters at repeating the same mistakes?

Not that old age guaranteed wisdom, Nanny had to admit. She knew plenty of stupid old people who were even stupider than young people because they’d been practicing stupid for so much longer. The trick was to work with what you saw. Not just to look but observe. That and not elect the stupid old ones into positions of power. Sadly, people weren’t very good at realising that last point.

‘You are a monk that changes history,’ said Zhanshi. ‘Does that mean you could just go back in time and change everything so we weren’t oppressed?’

‘Ooo, as Mrs Cosmopolite would say, “You’re so sharp be careful you don’t cut yourself.” You’ve got a live one there Mrs Ogg. Is he under your tutelage?’

‘Not sure about that tutlin’ but I reckon I’m teachin’ him a thing or two.’

‘Education comes in all shapes and sizes, Mrs Ogg, and I bet you’ve seen most of them.’

‘Not just seen, Mr Lu Tze.’

‘No, you understand the power of observation as well.’

This wasn’t what Nanny had meant but she let it pass.

‘To answer your question young man, it is not simply a matter of changing something in time and walking away. Everything is connected and there really is a cosmic balance. The trick is to know where the weak points are in this flow, the random fluctuations that can be made ... less random...and then nudging them. Leveraging the strands of the space time matrix.’

Zhanshi thought for a moment and then said, ‘Is this more gobbledygook?’

Lu Tze clapped his hands with glee. ‘So much promise, Mrs Ogg. Yes it is, but sometimes you just have to accept it as that until you can find true understanding....which is bloody elusive, I have to admit.

‘We have to be very careful about consequences. So many people overlook them until the midden hits the windmill. We aren’t just History Monks, we’re Consequence Monks. Of course, it helps to be able to run like hell if you need to. Nobody’s perfect.’

‘Important lesson that,’ said Nanny, who was a rare collection of proudly exhibited imperfections. Why be appropriate when inappropriate is so much more fun and beats appropriate hands down when it comes to results?

‘Time to get you out of here,’ said Lu Tze. He blurred for a moment and then reappeared holding a large key.

‘Ok, so what just happened then?’ asked Magrat. ‘Did you just travel through space?’

‘Mostly just time. I went to a time when I could grab a hold of the key.’ He unlocked the door. ‘Back in a second,’ he said, blurred and returned in the promised amount of time. ‘Don’t want the guard to get into too much trouble, mind you it’s still not going to be pretty for him. Staff reprimands around Jahat are fairly ... direct and pointy.’

‘Look,’ said Zhanshi as they filed out of the cell, ‘I still don’t get the bit where you can’t fiddle with time because of the consequences but right here and now it’s open season.’

‘One day, Zhanshi, you must come and visit our temple. I’m sure you and the Abbot would hit it off. Always asking questions. Is it not written that “Curiosity killed the cat?” ... but then it is also written “There’s no harm in asking.”’ Sometimes Mrs Cosmopolite* can be quite confusing to understand.

*As a young man Lu-Tze went to Ankh Morpork where he rented a room at Mrs Cosmopolite. From her he heard many profound sayings and created his own school of learning- the Way of Mrs Cosmopolite.

‘This is the last answer I’m giving and then we go. Right? When the History Monks were just learning their art we were a lot more hands-on with time. This lead to what is known in our trade as Temporal Ballsup. In the end we mostly had to go back and fix up a lot of mistakes, but it’s never that easy once you break something. It’s a stitch-up job at best. Around these surgeries in time no one knows exactly how things were before, so a wily monk might just be able to make some changes without causing another TB.’

‘Are you saying the History Monks could have caused the Agatean Empire in the first place?’ demanded Zhanshi.

‘Listen to yourself. Better yet, listen to me. I’m not saying any such thing. It could have been even worse, what you have is an area where we are unsure. And where there is uncertainty there is wriggle room. I thought we agreed to no more questions?’

‘I’m pretty sure that’s another question,’ said Magrat. ‘I’m thinking that right here and now we’ve got a bit more time up our robes, Mr Lu Tze, if time is so messy around here anyway.’

Lu Tze smiled. ‘It is never wise to restitch a wound too many times, but go on. I sense another question coming.’

‘Right. Nanny lit up a cigarette and you turned up. But what if she didn’t? Would you have still turned up anyway? Or did she always have to light that cigarette?’

‘Oooo, that’s very cosmic, that is. Determinism even. We do what we do because we were always going to. Would you like to believe you have no control over your fate?’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t. In the words of Mrs Cosmopolite “Things just happen.” Sounds fairly accurate to me. If this will put your mind at ease, messing with the timelines can get a monk in serious trouble with the Abbot, but those of us who’ve been around for a while know about a few escape clauses. One of those is standing here with us.’ Lu Tze turned and bowed to Nanny.

It was such a good bow that she blushed in embarrassment. This took a whole set of blood cells that prided themselves on unblushability by surprise. There are children out there who have never known a world where Nanny had blushed. In fact, there are children out there who owe their existence to Nanny’s resilience to blushing.

‘The rules don’t always apply when witches are involved. And if that witch happens to be Nanny Ogg you can defenestrate the rules totally. Once Nanny lit that cigarette I could turn up. Not even the Abbot could argue with that.

‘Now, we do need to go.’

‘What about Verence?’

Lu Tze turned to Magrat. ‘Tell me, can your husband look after himself?’

This was one of those awkward questions for partners. Magrat wanted to say no, but who was that answer really meant for?

‘Yes,’ she said after a pause. ‘He looked after himself when he was in the Fools Guild and when he tangled with elves ... with a bit of help from the Nac Mac Feegle ... yes, he can.’

‘Good. So let’s see how that works out, shall we? People are always very good at thinking there’s only one storyline, with them in the middle of it.’

Lu Tze turned and led them down the corridor. ‘So, tell me about these Nac Mac Feegles,’ he added.


	5. There is another

Jahat, the one who had brought him here, was everything you expected of him. He may have had many layers but they were all the same layer repeated over and over again. He was, classically, bad to the bone, and an easy, if unpleasant read. Pulp fiction in a way. The Gong on the other hand was not what he had expected and was the equivalent of a complex novel when it came to readability. 

Verence may have been viewed with a maternalistic indulgence by his subjects but even though a part of him wished they saw him as a leader of power and presence another much more astute part of him knew that those sorts of leaders didn’t exist and that anyone who tried to emulate them was almost certainly a bad leader, a bad person or, in many cases, both. In truth, this perception of him by his subjects was quite advantageous. It’s amazing what you can observe, learn and achieve if nobody realises you’re doing exactly that. Which is why he immediately recognised the situation the Gong was in and that perhaps the stories around corrupt and cruel behaviour from the highest office were focussed on the wrong person.

‘So, why are you spying on the Emperor’s court?’ demanded Jahat.

Verence was about to reply and then he stopped. If he was right about the Gong then he had to play exactly the right cards.

‘Surely the Emperor’s court no longer exists?’ Verence replied. ‘Are you not just representatives of the People’s Republic now?’

Jahat growled. The Revolution was a joke and not one he wanted to be part of. He would work with it, in name only, until the Re-Revolution came and everything was restored to its nature harmony of the oppressor and the oppressed. Until that time he would make certain no revolutionary seeds took hold in his country. ‘How dare you correct me, spy!’ he shouted.

Verence smiled. One point to me, he thought. ‘Your Lordship,’ Verence said, addressing the Gong and never looking at Jahat, ‘is this how a foreign dignitary is treated in your … organisation? Being questioned by a public servant?’

He might as well have slapped both the Gong and Jahat in the face, oh, but what a difference there was between the slaps. In the case of Jahat he had made an enemy for life, but with the Gong it was a moment of awareness. The Gong gazed directly into Verence’s eyes for the first time and he saw a flicker or shared understanding. The Gong knew that Verence understood and Verence understood that the Gong understood. There were probably a lot more iterations of understanding understanding that followed on from this but there’s only so many times the human mind can pursue this thinking before it wanders off to have a lie down.

‘That depends somewhat on the nature of what brings them to this country, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Verence, ‘but surely you operate on the principle of innocent until proven guilty?’

The Gong laughed in genuine surprise.’ You clearly are new to this country aren’t you? We operate on the assumption of guilt, which is convenient because we are exceptionally bad at collecting proof of innocence.’

‘Are you going to let a foreign invader speak to you like that?’ demanded Jahat. His face bore the furious expression of someone who is not used to the way thing were unfolding and had no intention of seeing this situation continue.

There was a long moment’s silence. It was one of those silences and one of those moments. When the winds of change stir and then wait. The winds of change are all too familiar with disappointment and have learned caution.

‘You know, Jahat,’ replied the Gong, never taking his eyes off Verence, ‘you’re quite right. I think I’ve had enough of the way I’ve been spoken too. Could you leave us now please?’

This time the silence was different. It was the most pregnant silence imaginable. Filled with more rage and outrage than can be found in a typical nationalist rally. The sort of anger that takes silence to a new level. Finally is gave birth to the explosive sound of the door slamming shut.

‘Well, that was a bit awkward,’ said the Gong, his ears ringing. ‘What did it look like from your angle?’

Verence, who had watched all of this unfold in what, in another world might be called technicolour, smiled. 

‘Have you ever seen bees swarm on an intruder?’ he asked.

‘Once,’ replied the Gong. ‘It wasn’t exactly pretty.’

‘Imagine that all that swarming took place inside someone’s head and that for good measure they’d just had a ferret shoved down their trousers.’

The Gong laughed out loud. It was a surprisingly rich laugh. The sort that suggested that it was a grand accumulation of laughter that hadn’t had a chance to escape for quite some time.

‘You know, there’s really no way to visualise that at all and yet I know in my heart that it’s the perfect description. How did I do by the way?’

‘If your goal was to establish an enemy for life I’d say ten out of ten.’

‘Oh, Jahat has always been that. Hates that he has to follow my commands, at least in theory.’

‘The difference is now he knows you know the limits of his power and that means he’ll tear you down as soon as possible. There’s nothing abusers of power loath more than limits. As far as how you dismissed him, I’d give that eight out of ten.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘Well, you used ‘please’ and ‘could’. If you’d said ‘Leave us’ that would have got you nine out of ten. A hand wave of dismissal would have got you all the points.’

The Gong nodded. ‘I can see there is much I can learn from your practices,’ he said. 

‘Oh,’ replied Verence, ‘I don’t do that at home, myself. Aside from the repercussions from the citizens my wife would never let me hear the end of it. Besides, we’ve got witches ....’ Verence shuddered slightly at the prospect of playing the arrogance card on Nanny Ogg. ‘But I do understand the theory, and so do you, I think. No wonder you looked unhappy. There is nothing more .... I mean very few things more* spirit crushing than having a set of moral standards and a conscience when it comes to politics.’

* Verence had learned a solid lesson from Nanny Ogg one day in hyperbole when he claimed that there was nothing more painful than stubbing his toe. Two minutes of graphic alternatives from Nanny changed his descriptions for ever. He would also never look at a pineapple the same way again.

‘You mentioned witches,’ said the Gong. ‘We have them here too, though they are more like evil spirits. Yours sound more like …. a disease.’

Verence laughed out loud. ‘Did it really? Well done. Keep sharpening your observation. It’s the most undervalued skill of a leader. Not a disease ... more like a painful irritation. Witches are .... most* witches are … ironclad figures of what’s right. They keep everyone honest, including me. This means I can practice democracy over autocracy. As long as the witches, approve of course. You don’t have witches yet, or any form of judicial system by the look of it, so it comes down to you. Of course, it gets tricky if a witch confuses right with righteousness. My job is to try and steer them and my subjects without them knowing they’re being steered’.

*Pineapple

‘Tell me more,’ said the Gong.

And Verence did.

**

With an occasional bit of time slip magic the party was soon back, unseen, at the Library.

‘What happened to you, and where’s the king person and the ape?’ asked Lei Ching. She listened as she was brought up to date and then after a thoughtful pause turned to Lu Tze. ‘So why are you a sweeper?’

The monk smiled. ‘You librarians are a rare breed. Surrounded by an endless stream of information you’ve learned to ask the interesting questions. The ones other forget to ask or don’t even think of. They’re too busy asking boring questions like “What next?” Thank the gods the Jahats of this world haven’t figured that out.

‘You’re wondering why a group like the History Monks isn’t some high profile organisation? That’s such a human view of the world.’

He said this in such a way that for a flickering moment Magrat wondered exactly how human Lu Tze really was. She put that thought away for further pondering. So did Lei Ching.

‘Tell me,’ continued the Monk, ‘who runs the world?’

‘The Gong and others like him,’ said Zhanshi.

‘There you go,’ replied Lu Tze, ‘equating visible power with real power. The visible ones think they’re in power.’

‘Jahat, then,’ persisted Zhanshi.

‘Ah, the slightly visible ones. The figures in the shadows. They know they’re in power.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re wrong again.’

‘It’s the ones you don’t see, sunshine,’ said Nanny, who was enjoying this getting of wisdom immensely.

‘Always cutting to the chase Mrs Ogg,’ said the Monk. ‘’Just when we were building to a satisfying climax. No sense of theatre.’

‘You know that’s rubbish Lu. Love a bit of theatre and I’ve had more than my share of satisfying climaxes. Just playing my part. Wise old lady adding humorous elements. Classic theatre role.’

‘Can’t pull anything over on you Mrs Ogg,’ Lu Tze replied, giving another of his bows. As Nanny struggled to contain her ‘unnatural’ blushing response there was an instant where she realised that perhaps the old monk could pull one over on her and he knew that and knew that she knew he knew. Life can still turn up surprises, which is one of its greatest joys, if you let it be.

‘If the world is watching you how much can you really achieve? The trick is to make sure the world is looking the other way and to be invisible. A sweeper goes everywhere because there is always dust, and no one asks questions of the invisible.

‘Now isn’t someone going to ask the boring question? I’ll do it myself. What next?’

‘Pretty sure you’ve got the answer to that one already Lu,’ said Nanny. ‘For does it not say “Don’t ask a question you don’t already know the answer of?’’’

Lu Tze clapped his hands. ‘Oh, Mrs Ogg, I see you have studied the teachings of Mrs Cosmopolite as well.’

‘You learn a new thing every day,’ she replied.

‘Another one of hers. And a perfect example of why her teachings can confound. How can you only ask questions of things you know the answer of if she also instructs is to learn something new daily. You can see the dilemma this causes. I think that this is her deepest teaching of all. Make up your own philosophies. Which is why I have to correct you Mrs Ogg. I don’t have the answer to that question but I do have an option. In this instance my philosophy is to try something that has potential and see how that works out. Planning is good but only up to a point. Though I have to admit Mrs Cosmopolite probably had that one covered to in her famous piece of advice “Why don’t you just suck it and see?”’

Lu Tze paused for a moment to organise his thoughts. A natural reaction around Nanny and one he was enjoying immensely. ‘One of the most confounding challenges for someone who believes in peace is to recognise when the pursuit of this peace requires physical conflict. Such a moral dilemma. What we need right now are fighters that are fundamentally good and also fundamentally fighters. Any thoughts?’

‘Us, of course,’ said Zhanshi. ‘The populace who are ready to rise up.’

‘And how’s that been going so far? If there’s one thing I know about populaces is that it’s a whole group of individuals waiting for someone to jump first. And they’re not going to do that on their own.’

‘Us too,’ added Nanny.

‘Yes, and it’s true that the right lever at the right point can move mountains but just at this moment I think we need to build on that lever.’

Magrat has been listening quietly for some time. She was struggling with her anxiety over Esmeralda and Verence but fundamentally she was a witch and witches, the ones that survive at least, don’t just see the bigger picture they see the smaller one too.

‘The Nac Mac Feegle,’ she said.

‘Absolutely,’ cried Lu Tze. ‘It was as if the gods designed them to be the perfect champions when moral dilemmas pop their heads up. The first thing they’d do if a moral dilemma did appear would be to give it such a kickin’. And yet they have done more good in the world than the world can possibly conceive of. They are a force to be reckoned with.’

‘Especially for those they’re helping,’ Nanny added.

‘That’s exactly why they are perfect,’ replied the monk. ‘Let’s go raise an army of wee free men.’

‘Are you coming with us?’ asked Magrat. ‘Is that in the rules?’

‘Is it not said that change is as good as a holiday, and I plan to do both. And as for rules, if you grow old the smart way, you soon learn that rules are just guidelines in disguise. That’s the rule I live by anyway.’

Nanny Ogg, who truly understood the nature of rules and guidelines and the validity of conflicting logic, smiled.

And the world shifted, just a little bit.

****  
The problem with planning is that it often leaps in half way through. The Feegle plan was good enough, except … the only one of the party that had any knowledge of how to navigate L-Space was somewhere deep in the jungle. Zhanshi was no use on that front. He was an expert on fanaticism and whilst some fanatics use their purpose to sharpen a whole range of skills that might prove handy in fighting for the cause Zhanshi was the other type of fanatic. The one that thinks so much about the cause and talks about it even more that there really isn’t much room for anything else.

Besides, he was finding the disruptive influence of Nanny was destabilising his single-minded focus something severe. Nanny would have said this was a good thing, if she knew. She knew.

‘Hey Zhan,’ she chirped, ‘bet you’re wishing you had more tools under your belt ... so to speak.’

Zhanshi squirmed and then glared. The glare is the last resort of someone who knows they’ve got no decent argument to come back with. Especially when the person you’re being tested by is very happy to use indecent arguments. The disturbing old lady was right. It really would have been handy to have pursued a few more skills.

It was fortunate then, that they had Lei Ching on their side.

‘I am just learning the nature of L-Space,’ she said after pondering the problem. ‘It is a non-linear space in which libraries are nodal points. These nodal points are measured not in mass but bibliographic significance, though recent research indicates there may be other factors at play. Fundamental forces carried on particles, called readons. These forces exist around readership and maybe even public belief. The more a library has of both readership and belief the more significant it’s presence is in L-Space. Are you with me so far?’

‘Yes,’ said Nanny immediately. She was still stuck in the first sentence but she’d figured this would speed things up, and as long as there wasn’t a trick question she’d be safe.

‘Excellent, Nanny,’ replied Lei Ching. ‘I must say I had some concerns that you would get lost. You deserve a reward for this and the best reward is recognition. Can you please tell the others where this is heading?’

Nanny blinked. Only those who knew Nanny closely understood what a blink meant. Nanny suffered the same problem as nearly all witches. Self-assertion burned so strong in her that a) whatever she was doing must be the best way of doing it because she was doing it b) she’d never admit to others they had a better approach, only adopting it later when no one else was looking and then claiming it was her idea in the first place c) she could never confess to being wrong or caught out.

This was where the blink came in. Magrat saw it, smiled and strapped herself in for the ride.

‘Riiiiight,’ said Nanny slowly, ‘so the way I sees it there’s this non-linen space where libraries are wrapped up ..... Maybe it’s some form of cotton .... then there are these library knowds .... though, personally I think they should be called knowns. After all that’s correcter English and it is libraries we’re talking about here .... as for bibliographic significance, well let’s start with the graphic part first ....’

Lu Tze hastily coughed, seeing exactly where this was heading. ‘I think what Nanny means to say is that in the L-Space continuum certain libraries are much larger nodes than others and, if she maybe so bold as to presume, those larger nodes are easier to find.’

Lei Ching smiled and nodded. It was one of those tricksy smiles that could have been innocent and transparent or could have meant I know exactly what’s going. Nanny didn’t care. Lu Tze had just handed her a shovel to dig her way out of hole.

‘Cheers Lu,’ she said, ‘’course I don’t need your help but clearly I was thinkin’ on a higher plan. That’s what the cotton’s all about. I was cottonin’ on you see. As for the continuumuumuuum ... lordie that’s a word that wants to keep on givin’ … I think that means you should continue so’s the others can catch up with me.’

‘She’ll never thank you,’ whispered Magrat.

‘I know,’ replied Lu Tze softly. ‘Wouldn’t be Mrs Ogg if she did. Sometimes you just have to save people from themselves. Besides, did you really want to hear her version of bibliographic significance?’

The thought hit Magrat like a well-aimed slingshot. The vigour with which she shook her head would have made a wet dog proud.

‘What Lu Tze .... and Mrs Ogg ... have realised is that some libraries are easier to find in L-Space. The University Library at Ankh Morpork is one of those nodes. This means I think we can get you back there and then you can travel by more conventional means.’

‘That’s great,’ said Magrat, ‘but what I’m also hearing is that we can’t use that to come back here. I’m pretty sure your library isn’t one of these hotspots.’

‘That is true.’

‘Seems like that’s a major flaw to me. The orangutan was our last hope.’

Lei Ching shook her head and then smiled. ‘No. There is another.’


	6. Time for a change

He went with them, leaving Lei Ching behind because, well, it felt like wherever the monk, the queen and the disturbing old lady witch were was where things happened. It was impossible to imagine that they wouldn’t be. Besides, the monk was right. People in general turned out to be people in the specific. You could stir up the flames of rebellion but you couldn’t do it alone and everything had to be in place for it to happen. Spontaneous rebellions take a lot of planning. 

Lei Ching was right, The Unseen University Library did shine out in L-Space. This didn’t make the journey a simple undertaking. L-Space is a nightmare waiting to turn the unwary traveller into a set of bookends. It was fortunate that they had both Lu Tze and Magrat in their party. Nanny Ogg’s general ambivalence to reading (i.e. she treated it like housecleaning. To be avoided where ever possible) and Zhanshi’s limited skill base and life experience were as useful as milk-dispensing anatomy on a bull. Lu Tze, though, who had often danced the dance with timelines was more familiar with the slippery nature of a dimension that was close to being sentient. For her part, Magrat’s dedication to traditional library principles made her a passable navigator through the dangerous territory. More than this, L-Space recognised one of its own and resisted sending in its natural antibodies, bibliogoblins. With Magrat at the helm and Lu Tze steering them away from literary pitfalls they made their way across L-Space. The trip with the Librarian had been quicker, gut-wrenchingly so. This one was painstakingly slower, which gave them all the more time to appreciate the wonders of this extraordinary dimension. They walked down canyons of geological tomes, past flowering fields of herbology books and even waded across the stream of consciousness. Not that speed was an issue. Lu Tze informed the group that time in L-Space moved differently. You could spend hours in it without any noticeable time passing in the outside world.* 

* The laws of conservation meant that this time had to be borrowed from somewhere. This explains why so many patrons suddenly discover they’ve spent far more time in the library than they expected. It’s like time-loss that reportedly occurs with alien abduction, with the added benefit of not involving any form of probing whatsoever**.

** Though, if it did occur it would be, without doubt, annal probing

‘This way,’ said Magrat, leading the group towards the glowing portal. ‘Just step through. I’m sure we’re on level ground.’

What’s a few feet on astronomical scales? It was fortunate that Nanny, who went first, was quite resilient, had a tendency to bounce on landing and proved remarkably forgiving when others landed on top of her.

‘I’ve had worse,’ she observed and then, thankfully, said nothing more.

The next stage of the journey was to Lancre to tidy a few things up. The quickest option was the coach, which could accommodate all four of them.

‘Look,’ said Nanny as they entered the office to arrange tickets, ‘they’ve got a picture of me on the wall.’

It was true. There was a good likeness of Nanny Ogg, next to a good likeness of Granny Weatherwax. Under each picture were the words Banned from Travel.

‘Really?’ said Nanny in surprise when Magrat pointed this out. ‘Can’t understand why. I’ll sort this misunderstandin’ out. It’s not likely Granny and I haven’t travelled on them coaches before and, as I recall, we were model passengers.’

Everyone is a model of something, It’s the something that causes problems.

‘You,’ said the clerk in horror when Nanny Ogg presented herself at the counter.

‘Bit more respect, young man,’ said Nanny with a grin that would have spelled trouble if Nanny didn’t have trouble spelling trouble. ‘Now, do you know why I’ve been banned?’

‘I’ve heard stories,’ replied the clerk nervously.

‘And do you think that the sort of person who appears in these stories is going to make your life easier or harder?’

‘Ummm…’

‘Look, I can make things easier, but just do what I say. What’s your supervisor’s name?’

‘Mr Plowright.’

‘Good. Go and tell Mr Plowright … I reckon he’ll be in that room out the back … that if Nanny Ogg and her friends can’t travel on your coach he’ll have to come out here and explain it to me. Hurry up then.’

The clerk needed no further encouragement. He bolted to the office, knocked and entered. What unfolded has been played out many times in locations across the multiverse. Heated unintelligible debate followed by quiet realisation that today could rapidly turn south, especially if you happened to be the supervisor. A brief parting of the curtains – brief enough for a worried face to confirm that today Mr Plowright could end up being Mr Plowwrong. Further debate, lower in volume but higher in urgency. Finally the clerk re-emerged. He hurried to the counter.

‘Ahem. I wish to advise you that today, because of unspecific reasons that apply only during Mr Plowright’s shift today and cannot be divulged, you and your friends are permitted to travel on the coach to whatever destination you prefer.’

‘Lancre,’ said Nanny.

‘That’s a long way,’ began the clerk, implying that this information may change the view of Mr Plowright but a loud growl and a curtain shake from the small room suggested that, very definitely, this information did not change Mr Plowright’s mind.

‘For free,’ added Nanny.

‘Free?! Oh, I very much doubt that’s possible.’

This time the growling and curtain rattling was so loud an uninformed observer might ponder the kind of wild animal currently trapped in the room. The informed observers in the room knew differently.

‘I believe Mr Plowright has just indicated it is very much possible,’ said Nanny.

***

The journey to the Chalk, where the Nac Mac Feegle generally resided, was a two stage affair, though not the sort of affair that Nanny Ogg preferred. Stage one was coach trip to Lancre. This passed without incident, incident being a subjective creature. There was an attempted holdup, but the robbers kept their own banned from holdup file, which was identical to the coach company. There was the natural embarrassment that follows the whole process of apologising and un-holduping. Nanny made this easier by accepting restitution in the form of any available tobacco. Nanny was always the willing diplomat in these sorts of circumstances.

On arrival they met with the local witch, Geoffrey, since Lancre was effectively without its royalty (Verence and Magrat) and its unofficial royalty (Nanny Ogg). The truth was that things had been flowing smoothly enough in their absence. Good management isn’t about being indispensable. Quite the reverse.

‘I’ll keep an eye on things,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Besides, I’ve got the whole Ogg clan to help me.’

The Oggs were an institution in Lancre. A phrase that can carry many levels of meaning and in the Ogg case it certainly did. The thing was, they were everywhere. In the shape of sons and grandsons .... and daughters-in-law.

Nanny Ogg was exceptionally proud of her sons and when it came to family loyalty it was a mountain so large not even the most ardent climber of peaks would dare its ascension. For the sons nothing was ever good enough. The daughters-in-law, though, did not share in this rich glory. For them, nothing was also ever good enough, but in the reverse. In their case the yardstick was measured in miles. It was not easy being a daughter-in-law in the Ogg family.

To be fair to Nanny, she was, in general, incredibly tolerant and flexible. She was an advocate for treating everyone pretty much the same, as long as they weren’t a tosser, of course. This is a healthy space to be in until you realise that perhaps, just perhaps, you had your own personal blind spot.

‘Bugga,’ said Nanny. It’s not easy when decades of realisation stack up against you. She’d always been an advocate for sexual equality*, and was suddenly realising that she may have dropped the ball on this one.

* Though she’d never needed to argue for it in her case.

‘Go and get Shawn and Jason for me’, she said. ‘Tell her Nanny wants a little word with them.’

There is nothing more .... very few things* more likely to generate a disturbance to an Ogg than Nanny wanting a ‘little word.’ Scant minutes later the two sons appeared, short of breath from the unexpected sprint.

* Even Nanny had to remember the pineapple occasionally.

‘Right you two, I’m going to be gone for a while and so is Magrat and Verence. Leaves what we call a power vacuum in Lancre.’

‘Vacuum?’ said Shawn. Shawn was never short of a question. Too many people, often to their detriment, had assumed this showed some lack of intelligence, without considering a) the role of questioning in the getting of wisdom b) he was the son of Gytha Ogg. This aside, there was still plenty of room for an increased vocabulary.

‘Big hole,’ said Nanny, ‘and we don’t want just anyone coming along and filling it in, if you get what I mean.’

The two sons nodded. It wasn’t so long ago that they’d lost Granny Weatherwax and though Geoffrey was doing a fine job, the boots were large.

‘You’ve both got plenty on your plates right now,’ she continued, the casual observing noting that, judging by the size of her sons, this was a fairly accurate assessment, ‘so I think you’ll need the help of your wives.’

There’s silence because of the absence of sound. A gentle thing that ebbs and flows. Then there’s the other silence. The one that’s about presence. It’s a holding of breath, an imminence. A coming tsunami.

‘Mum ....’ began Shawn but that was as far as he got.

‘Don’t you dare contradict me, Shawn,’ Nanny cut through. ‘I’ll admit I’ve probably been a little harsh on the womenfolk in our family, but I’m always open to changin’ my mind and I have. So don’t even try changin’ it again.’

Shawn and Jason looked at each other. Neither was about to say anything about the glaring contraction in their mother’s edict. Both had grown up in a world where Nanny changing her mind was as rare as rooster eggs and even finding one of them was more likely than Nanny changing her mind as a result of someone’s argument. Maybe the times really were a-changin’. They stayed silent in part because they were trying to grapple with this new concept but mainly because they agreed with it wholeheartedly.

Geoffrey, who may have been young in years, but old in wisdom watched all this unfold. Good witches are good at understanding witchcraft, great witches are experts at understanding people. The greatest of these, Granny Weatherwax, called it Headology and Geoffrey was fast becoming a master of it. The way to make Nanny run with your idea was to make it her idea.

‘I’ve had this idea for a long time, boys,’ said Nanny.

Geoffrey, demonstrating even more Headology, didn’t smile once.

****

The best word used to describe the period when it was discovered that the prisoners had gone missing was pandemonium, largely because the word owes its origin to a demonic city in Hell and when Jahat was involved in a situation like this Hell and demons immediately sprang to mind.

No amount of searching, though, could uncover them. They were gone. The guards swore they had seen nothing out of the ordinary. On another world video footage would have had a mysterious fifteen minute missing from the recording. It was only when Verence had been taken back to his cell that the escape had been discovered.

‘What do you know about this?’ he demanded turning on his last remaining prisoner.

Verence smiled. ‘I honestly have no idea. This is what it’s like living with them all the time. But I guess Nanny did warn you, didn’t she? She told you she was a witch.’

Jahat screamed. It was a high quality scream. It gave the listener the impression that they were in the presence of a human kettle that had just reached boiling point.

‘How dare you insult me with that rubbish about witches. There is no such thing. No magic, just little old women.’

‘And yet, where are they? Gone. Like magic.’

Jahat screamed again but this one fell well short of the quality of his first scream. The rage was still there but so was something else. Could that have been a hint of uncertainty?

‘Lock him up again, this time in the deepest cell, and I want guards outside the door and one inside it. As for those fools that let the others escape, find out what you can and dispose of them in the usual way afterwards.’

***

It’s a curious reality that most ideas that had never been entertained because the entertainee has made up their mind that they simply won’t fly, fly like birds. It’s what keeps the entrepreneur industry in business and also drives agents of change mad.

At first the Ogg womenfolk were thrown into confusion and it’s possible this unique opportunity might have gone begging simple because people persist in being people, and that involves being a cornucopia of doubts, anxiety and suspicion. At the tipping point Geoffrey, who knew all about these moments and made sure he was there, coughed.

‘Nanny,’ he said as all eyes turned to him, ‘what are you going to do with Greebo?’

Greebo was Nanny’s cat, though this simple description was an understatement of such magnitude that it could be likened to describing the world as a bit complicated. It would be better to think of Greebo as feline, at least in mindset. Not immoral, as such, but extremely comfortable as amoral. But even that didn’t work. Greebo, at different times, had been turned into a human and this messes with a cat’s mind something fierce. To complicate matters further, he lived with Nanny and had spent plenty of time in the company of witches. All witches (with the possible exception of Geoffrey) were part feline, coming at this duality from the human perspective. What this meant was that Greebo was profoundly certain of his sense of self ... except when he wasn’t, and then he was profoundly certain of his uncertainty.

Greebo who had, to all intents and purposes, been fast asleep on the lounge, opened his one functioning, yellow eye on Geoffrey, before turning it on Nanny. Waiting.

‘Hmmmm,’ she said after a long moment’s thought as the seed Geoffrey had planted germinated, ‘funny you should mention that Geoffrey. I’d been ponderin’ the same myself. He’s such a softy. I’ve half a mind to leave him here. Besides he can keep an eye on things.’

That was all it took. Now the daughters-in-law could feel comfortable with the idea that Nanny was giving them freedom by pretending she wasn’t and Nanny could do the same in reverse. No one asked Greebo’s opinion.

Then it was a matter of lining up the others so that they could cover for Magrat’s and Verence’s absence and get ready for departure.

‘I have the strangest urge to take our leave by a large balloon, emerald coloured,’ said Magrat.

‘Sounds like that might be someone else’s story,’ observed Nanny. ‘You need to write your own, not live others. Its broomsticks all the way for me. Hey Zhanshi, do you want to travel on mine?’ she said turning to the young man. ‘You’ll have to hold on tight, of course,’ she added with a smile.

Zhanshi had been wide-eyed since entering L-Space. Everything was such a new experience. Remarkably, his eyes got even wider, this time out of fear of an experience that would be both totally new and, in another disturbing sense, totally old as well.

‘I think it would be better if I accompanied you, Mrs Ogg,’ said Lu Tze, who was enjoying himself immensely on this holiday but knew when a fellow traveller needed rescuing. ‘You understand travelling with an old body.’

Lu Tze looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘There’s just something I need to sort out first,’ he said after a moment. ‘Wouldn’t be much company if I didn’t.’

The monk sweeper nipped off down the path. Because he had a habit of watching everything only Geoffrey noticed a slight blurring around the monk as he headed around a corner. Scant moments later Lu Tze returned, smiling. Sometimes the best way to see a monkey on someone’s back is after it’s gone.

‘Would’ve been happy to travel with a young body,’ Nanny observed with a philosophical mumble. ‘Alright then,’ she said, the disappointment burnt away under the furnace flames of her unquenchable enthusiasm for adventure and her need to take charge, ‘you hop on Magrat’s broom Zhanshi and I’ll take the old fella. Betcha a dollar we have more fun.’

Nanny was right. They did.

***

One of the sad traditions of imprisonment is that any guard vaguely in the vicinity of an escape is in for a hard time. When Jahat was involved it wasn’t just a hard time, it was hard with sharp pointy bits. To be fair to the guards it wasn’t that they were unaware of the risk, it was that they didn’t really have much choice. They all had mouths to feed and they did the job to keep them fed. Most never spoke about their work because there wasn’t a lot of pride in it. Nor did it require much skill, which was why the profession tended to attract those with a limited skill set.

They had seen nothing but they knew something. That their future had got a lot shorter, for starters, and a lot more intense. They were led down to that area of the dungeon no one ever wanted to go near because no one whoever entered it came out again. At least not as the same person. They were handed quickly over to the interrogators by their fellow guards, who knew both the shame of what they were doing and secret relief that it wasn’t them.

Whilst the guards may not have been the sharpest tools in the shed, the interrogators not only were sharp tools, they knew where to find the sharpest tools in the best shed and how to use them to obtain what they needed. To describe them as human arseholes lowers the concept of humanity down to embarrassing levels ... and it doesn’t do arseholes any favours either.

Are all interrogators psychotic? Do all derive pleasure from what they do? Some maybe, but not all. For many it involves loyalty to a cause, desire for approval and an ability to create a double of yourself who can carry out acts of torture that protects your inner being. It helps if you can dehumanise who you’re torturing as well. The question worth asking here is, does any of this make torturing or torturers any more forgivable?

The guards had been placed in a cell next to the interrogation room while the torturers got the relevant equipment prepared. This was actually the first step in the process. The interrogators has found that even just the sounds of metal on metal that could be heard in the nearby cell had a satisfyingly disturbing effect on their subjects. It was during this interrogation foreplay that the guards, who were currently trying to shut out the grating sounds of their future, were surprised when the door of their cell swung open. An old sweeper stood there.

‘Time’s a slippery little sucker,’ the old man said, ‘and once you start messing with the storyline it gets complicated. You were a story that wasn’t supposed to happen and it’s my fault. I can’t live with that ... and neither can you, when I think about it.’

The guards said nothing because they had no idea what this was all about. This is always the best approach when ignorant, though sadly not one adhered to by enough people. History is riddled with tragic examples of this.

‘But I’ve got some good news, friends. I’ve been able to nip back down my own timeline and explore a side street, if you get what I mean. No. Fair enough. Confuses the heck out of me too. The important thing is that history hasn’t yet figured out what’s happening and if we play our cards right we could just about pull the iron out of the fire*. You happy to work with me on this?’

* There is a school of thought that says if one cliche helps to get the message across surely more will make it even more powerful. Research done by the famed philosopher, Ly Tin Wheedle, discovered this to have no foundation whatsoever, with his findings captured in that famous rebuttal ‘too many cooks can spoil the broth, even if many hands make light work and a stitch in time saves nine. Remember a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. And don’t get upset about being wrong. Just because you counted your chickens before they hatched doesn’t mean you should cry over spilt milk.’

The old man had the guards at the mention of irons in the fire. It always helps an argument when the cliche you use is a commentary on things to come. Again they nodded.

‘So here’s what you have to do. When you get out of here head home, grab your families and disappear. If you ever get the temptation to do something important and world changing, don’t give into it. Teach your children the same. Leave no footprint. Can you do that?’

Given the alternative unfolding in the next room this was, as far as the guards could see, a rhetorical question. Again with the nodding.

‘Good. Don’t worry about the interrogators. They’ll help you with this. Now go.’

And they went.

***

This was how the story unfolded. As soon as the guards’ absence was discovered the interrogators quickly assessed how things would pan out for them. A short while later, after a suitable auditory display of torture behind a firmly closed and totally opaque door the interrogators reported that they had been unable to extract any further information from the guards despite applying their most creative techniques and they had disposed of the bodies. And so the circle was complete ....

... except. History is not just a string of events strung together by time. History, thanks to the company of humans, exists in its own right. Just because Lu Tze had got away with his plan didn’t mean it wasn’t observed. History is inscrutable but everything else is, to History at least, scrutable. This makes it devilishly difficult to attribute motives, personality or any of those other elements that beset sentient beings to History. All you can do is observe and draw your own conclusions.

The guards did make good their escape and held true to their word. But curiously, by adhering to the philosophy of ‘no footprint’, they started a movement that over time would change the way many people looked at the world. And a new history emerged.

As for the interrogators, again curiously, to a person, their plan worked … but in a strange string of coincidences all of them met with abrupt and unexpected ends. The fact that all were nasty pieces of work that the world was, in general, better off without must surely be another coincidence. Who knows how much their departure changed history, possibly for the better?


	7. Negotiations

Tiffany watched the two broomsticks approaching, laden by their occupants. It was easy to pick which was witch. Magrat had the distinct profile of someone who understood the inherent risks of indulgence and had opted for a safer life, laced with sensible austerity. Nanny, on the other hand, had a figure that strongly suggested she also understood the inherent risks of indulgence and was going to make she was there for every one of them.

Tiffany had been waiting for their arrival. Witches have a reputation of being prescient and it’s one they strongly encourage. Unless you subscribe to a solipsist view of the world, living isn’t just living it’s a performance. All the world, as someone might have once said, is a stage. One of the most important skills in a witch’s armoury is using the power of perception. Certainly Tiffany had read the signs of the coming visitors but it had less to do with portents in the heavens and more to do with a network of Nac Mac Feegles who could move faster than thought, and often did. Tiffany had word of the coming long before the first sighting. Magic comes in many forms.

‘Wotcha, Tiff,’ said Nanny as she untangled herself from Lu Tze and disembroomsticked.  
It was quite an operation. Tiffany noted that Nanny was still quite limber considering her maturing years. She then quickly shut that train of thought down before it went off the tracks ... or worse still kept going.

‘It may be a bit slower travelling with two but it can quite brisk up there and you certainly kept the chill away Lu,’ Nanny said, smiling at the monk.

Lu Tze had to agree. The last thing he’d been concerned about was getting cold. He’d spent much of his time trying to find a safe place to hold on, only to realise there were no safe places as far Nanny was concerned. It was innocent enough, as long as you took Nanny’s broad and creative perspective on innocence.

Zhanshi was thankful that he’d travelled with Magrat. Granted, the witch suffered from a condition where she had to espouse her views on world-improvement, whether you wanted to hear them or not, but that was mild by comparison. Besides, he shared a similar affliction. The sad truth is that those who can see how to change the world for the better are constantly frustrated by the reality that the problem has never been the message. It’s that you have to deliver it to people and people are incredibly prone to selective deafness, especially when it comes to thinking globally rather than personally.

‘How’s it been going Tiffany?’ asked Magrat, who was doing her best to try and not think about her husband and daughter, with little success. She was beginning to realise that she, along with the vast bulk of the population, had been conditioned, through social expectations and genetics, to find a mate and have children. It was only once you’d achieved that goal that you got to turn the card over and read all the fine print.

‘Very well, thank you,’ Tiffany replied, stifling the urge to admit she was having the devil’s own time with all the problems the locals kept on turning up with. Most of which should never have arisen if people weren’t so damn good at creating them.

This is both the great strength and weakness of a witch. You never admit doubt, never admit mistakes and never seek help - especially from other witches. This does help to build resilience and self-reliance but even blind Freddie can see the flaws in this approach. It’s probably the only reason witches don’t rule the world. It’s also the reason a more accurate name for a Coven is A Bloody Great Argument.

‘Of course,’ she added as a concession to her conscience, ‘sometimes you have to work on people’s minds as much as their body, which is fine as long as you can find a working mind in the first place.’

‘You’ll make a fine Granny, one day,’ said Nanny.

‘No, I’m making a fine Tiffany right now,’ Tiffany replied.

Nanny smiled. ‘Just what Granny would have said,’ she added.

Tiffany growled in frustration only making Nanny smile wider. If that didn’t inspire the young witch to be herself as hard as possible nothing would. Granny had always had a good understanding of how people worked, after all she’d invented Headology, but Granny had been more of an external observer. Nanny worked from the inside out, which made her a lot more cunning and dangerous.

‘So Tiff,’ she continued, ‘we need to borrow the Nac Mac Feegle for a while.’

Tiffany laughed. ‘The Nac Mac Feegle? No one borrows them. They’re not called the Wee Free Men for nothing.’

‘Granted,’ replied Nanny. ‘Fully respect their independence, it’s just that we’d be ever so grateful ...and we’d probably have to thank them somehow.’

Nanny reached under her skirts and, with a vaguely disturbing snap of a suspender, drew out a small flask. She carefully unscrewed the cap and the smell of pure alcohol drifted out. Moments later, the leaves of a nearby tree rustled, which would have been quite natural, if the air wasn’t quite so calm.

‘You can’t bribe the Nac Mac Feegle so easily, Nanny.’

The rustling in the tree suddenly took on a lot more urgency.

‘I wouldnae be too hasty there,’ said a voice from the greenery.

‘Of course, it’s homemade,’ Nanny added, and the tree sighed in creative imagination.

‘Would this be yer famous suicider?’ asked the tree.

‘Oh no,’ replied Nanny. ‘That’s just the still I use to keep prying drinkers distracted. The one that seems to suffer from a strange case of spontaneous evaporation. No, this is the real stuff, from my secret still.’

‘Crivens!’ cried another tree branch. ‘She has another still, the crafty old besom. Does she no trust anyone?’

‘Oh waily waily waily,’ cried another branch, ‘and we’ve been adrinkin’ the weak stoof ....’ There was a pause. ‘Not that we’d kno anythin’ aboot anyone drinkin’ the suicider. Besides we wasnae there ....’ another pause ‘because .... because ... we was drinkin’ from some other still.’

The speaker sounded deeply relieved and particularly proud of the watertight alibi.

‘Aye, that’d be right,’ said another branch. ‘Great thinkin’ Daft Wullie, and it’s no often you’ll be hearing that said.’

A chorus of ayes, ochs and crivens sprang from every leafy corner. The tree dwellers were clearly of the view that an alibi was an alibi, irrespective of whether or not it would fall down at the first zephyr of scrutiny.

‘There’s more where this came from,’ said Nanny, throwing fuel onto the alcoholic pyre.

‘Nanny, give the Nac Mac Feegle some credit,’ said Tiffany in frustration.

‘Oh, I plan to do that,’ Nanny replied.

‘Ye have more of the stoof, d’ye say?’ said the first voice. ‘And would the credit extend to consumption of the aforementioned alcohol?’

Just because the Nac Mac Feegle lived a lifestyle of alcohol consumption combined with a tendency to use their heads as lethal weapons it was wrong to assume they lacked intelligence. The brain of a Feegle follows the same rules of natural selection as anywhere else and generations of Feegling had bred the sort of brain cells that could live suspended in alcohol for a month ... and sometimes did. They were also, thanks to their lifestyle choices, quite conversant with the sort of language you generally hear in a courtroom.

Nanny nodded. ‘Wouldya care fer a samplin’ now?’ she asked in perfect Feegle, placing the flask on the ground.

It is a widely held view that the fastest animal on the Disc is the Ambiguous Pazuma but it wasn’t even in the frame when it came to a Feegle accepting the offer of a free drink. The tree was still swaying as the empty flask rolled in the dirt, surrounded by a horde of small blue men.

‘That wassa damn fine drop,’ said one of them, licking his lips. He turned to Nanny. ‘Now what were ya thinkin’ was the price, hag?’ he continued, ‘bearin’ in mind that the offer of more is still on tha table, ye ken.’

Nanny loved the Feegles because they stretched even her view of appropriate behaviour. She wouldn’t swap witching for the world, but if she’d been born male she couldn’t imagine anything better than being a Feegle. She knew there were female Feegles; they went by the title of Kelda and each clan had one. Despite the fact that being the only female in an all-male clan may have had some benefits Nanny knew that trying to manage the clan would be a full time job and where’s the fun in being the one that has to limit the fun?

‘Well Rob,’ answered Nanny, addressing the leader of the group, Rob Anybody, and ignoring the glare from Tiffany, ‘I was thinkin’ we could use a little help with an altercation we’re plannin’’

Tiffany sighed. If there was one thing the Nac Mac Feegle enjoyed more than drinking it was a fight ... preferably in combination with the alcohol in question. She gave up.

‘Are yoo sayin’ you’re offerin’ us your finest and in return ya want us to fight someone?’ said Rob carefully. ‘Where’s the catch?’

‘You’ll have to learn a new fighting technique,’ replied Nanny.

Rob processed this concept carefully. ‘Sooo, we get alcohol, a fight and a new way to thump bigjobs?’

Nanny nodded.

‘Right,’ replied Rob. ‘I just need to consult with me colleagues.’

He turned to the gathered Feegles. There was a brief animated discussion, held in Feegle whispers. Since Feegles only have a concept of quiet when it comes to various activities that it’s wisest the local constabulary have no idea about everyone present heard each word spoken.

‘Are ya mad, Rob? Just say yes.’

‘Ah, Wee Jock, I can see you’re a bit short on the thinkin, there. We don’t want the hag to think we’re that easy, ye ken. We have ta play hard to get.’

‘Och, Rob, that’s why you’d be the leader. That’s first class thinkin’ that is. Cause we c’n play hard ta get.’

As a group the Feegles all turned to Nanny and sadly shook their heads.

‘I’m afraid they still need moor convincin’’ said Rob. ‘Hae ya got moor to offer, hag?’

Nanny frowned because it was the only way she could stop herself from smiling. ‘You Feegles are tough negotiators, no doubt. All I’ve got left is a bottle of my rubbing alcohol. It’s not for drinking, mind you. You use it to rub down things. It’s powerful stuff.’

The silence that followed this statement was deafening.

‘Alcohol that’s so powerful ye have to roob it in’ said Rob slowly.

Nanny nodded.

‘But ye can roob it inta any surface?’

Another nod.

There was a further silence as each Feegle tried to process the concept of such a powerful alcohol. This was followed by the consideration of what constituted a surface.

‘Aye, weel, even though you’re gettin’ the best o’ the deal, I think we can accept those terms.’

The other Feegles nodded so vigorously they dislodged a shower of sticks, insects and, in one curious case, a small mouse from the wild red matting that could be loosely described as hair solely on the basis of its location on their head.

‘Done,’ said Nanny, spitting into her palmed extending her hand.

‘What was ya expectin’ me to do with that?’ Rob asked, staring at the hand.

‘Spit on your own hand, and then we shake. Seals the deal.’

Rob looked down at his hand which you’d be no more likely to call a bit dirty than your describe the ocean as a bit wet and shuddered.

‘Do ye hags have no idea o’ hygeen?’ he exclaimed looking to Tiffany for approval. Tiffany smiled. The Nac Mac Feegle, despite her initial reservations, had shown an ability to learn things, though they tended to struggle with applying these lessons to themselves. This is a problem not just confined to the Feegle race.

‘On yer honour then,’ said Nanny.

‘Aye, and just in case yer concerned aboot that we’ll even accept your honour as weel’.

Nanny laughed and laughed.

***

Jahat was not someone who took defeat lying down through the direct approach of never taking defeat at all. This tactic was incredibly effective because he supplemented it with an ironclad belief that he was never wrong and an evolutionary model that placed Jahat at the centre. Survival of the fittest in the most specific sense. Everything ever created was an opportunity for him to take advantage of. He was a high functioning sociopath before anyone had ever coined the term. In many countries this would have made him prime leadership material.

Jahat was also a pragmatist. He knew he was a shark in a sea of fishes, but Agatea has plenty of creatures in power that would eat a shark for breakfast. Starting right at the top. Which was why he had to work with others to achieve a common purpose. Dealing with the Gong. Of course, the common purpose wasn’t actually common, since all his allies were sharks, just like him, which meant they were all pursuing their own agendas. Predators can work together so all get a meal or defeat an enemy, but what happens when you run out of prey or enemies?

Not that that worried Jahat too much. Defeat of his allies was a matter for another day. Focus. Smile. Agree. And do a little planning on the side.

‘The Gong is showing more signs of rebellion,’ he said. ‘The time is ripe for a change in leadership.’

You have found a candidate?’ said the Godsfather.

The leader of the Biad always went by this title. It came with the job. The leader forewent any former connections. In theory this made it easier for them to implement any plans that may harm people in their former lives, but as caring about others was never an issue for a Godsfather this was a pointless argument. An alternative theory was that it protected them from being manipulated by others who knew of their past, but this theory suffered the same fatal flaw as the first one. The real reason was that competition for the top job in the Biad was as fierce as anywhere in the animal kingdom and it made things so much easier to make a change without disrupting the administration (other than the usual purging of those loyal to the former Godsfather, of course, but this was natural and to be expected). It also saved on letterhead.

‘It has not been easy,’ said Jahat carefully. ‘Once upon a time we could have found someone with a suitable royal connection that was … pliable …and arrange a suitable distribution of power. Now with this cursed Republic in place we have to be more, circumspect. We need to find a solution that doesn’t draw too much attention to it.’ Jahat paused.

The Godsfather said nothing and waited. He had found that silence was amazingly effective at getting someone to talk, alongside various other more painfully physical implements, of course.

‘In the end there was no other choice, I’m afraid,’ continued Jahat, who knew when his options were limited to one. ‘I was the only candidate that was unlikely to raise too many eyebrows and, so, even though it pains me to lose my freedom, I will make the sacrifice.’

At no point during this whole conversation had the Gdosfather’s eyes left Jahat’s and they certainly weren’t about to now. Nor did they blink. Jahat’s ones the other hand were watering furiously. Just because you’re totally self-absorbed doesn’t mean you can’t experience fear. He also knew when to shut up.

At that point when you have the urge to scream just to fill up to void of silence the Godsfather spoke.

‘A good plan,’ he said. ‘No doubt it will require some tweaking along the way, but one that we can work with for now.’

Jahat nodded, taking the chance to blink. He knew that if there was a glossary to this conversation the word ‘tweaking’ would either be wide open to interpretation or possibly feature an amazing array of examples. It was hard to decide which would be worse, but he could work with that. He’d be doing some tweaking of his own.


	8. Martial arts

‘Jahat,’ called the Gong.

‘Yes, Master?’

One moment the room had been empty of officials the next Jahat was standing beside the Gong, as though he had been there all along. In his darker moments the Gong wondered if this really was the case and that Jahat had descended from some form of evil chameleon. Jahat on the other hand, derived a certain amount of satisfaction every time he saw that little jump that meant he’d startled the Gong. It was only a small thing, but everyone craved workplace satisfaction, even architects of the destruction of the workplace in question.

‘Bring me the foreign king. I would talk to him again.’

‘Do you think that wise, master? Are you even certain he is a king? His lies cannot be trusted....’

‘Interesting you should say that, Jahat. If the king’s lies cannot be trusted, whose lies should we trust?’

‘Mine,’ said Jahat sharply and then stopped when he realised what the Gong had actually said. Jahat had made a fool out of himself or, rather, the Gong had tricked him. Either way, he was going to repay the Gong for his insolence in spades ... spades would definitely be involved. ‘Such a droll joke, Master. Of course I would never lie to you. You know that don’t you?’

‘It is certainly true that I know how much I can trust you,’ the Gong replied. ‘I will take my chances with him. I think that with all the training you have given me over the years I should be well skilled in detecting lies.’

‘And what if he should escape while we are transporting him?’

‘Jahat. Are you telling me you have no confidence in guards you are responsible for? Or is that you are afraid of ... witches?’

The word hung on the air like some ominous hangy-in-the-air thing*, and in this dangerous game where there could never be an honourable draw he had scored a point. Jahat said nothing further. He spun on his heels to hide the look on his face and disappeared out the door, closing it just hard enough to imply fury but not hard enough to confirm it.

* Sometimes the words just don’t come

A short while later he returned with Verence. By the look of it he had bought every available guard on the palace with him. It was the sort of entourage that was so dense you could imagine it having the sort of gravitational field more commonly associated with heavenly bodies - small ones, admittedly. Was Jahat afraid of witches? The black hole of guards was all the answer the Gong needed.

After a brief comedic moment that always accompanies a large group trying to get through a much smaller door Verence was propelled into the room. Jahat positioned himself nearby.

‘That will be all Jahat,’ the Gong said. ‘And take your travelling circus with you.’

‘Master, I can’t leave in the company of this dangerous invader. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.’

‘It is heartwarming to discover you have the powers of forgiveness. I must confess I’d had my doubts. I think you’ll find I’m quite capable of defending myself and, if you’ll pardon me saying so Verence, our guest appears largely incapable of attack.’

‘No offence taken,’ said Verence. ‘Can’t really argue with the truth. The only time I can recall being a threat to anybody involved some rather strange people called the Nac Mac Feegle and a cup of their home brew. Since both are well absent you’re safe as houses. Besides, I give you my word.’

‘In fact, Jahat, don’t bother coming back. I appreciate your concern over transporting Verence to and from his cell. It’s safest if he is installed in the room next door.’

‘What?’ yelped Jahat.

‘I believe you meant to say “What, Master?” there, Jahat. We must role model to those below us and right now the role I want you to model is obedience. Understood? There is always a time for discussion but this is not that time. You’ve done an excellent job assembling the guards to witness our role modelling. Why not take the opportunity to put them to good use. Send them out into the streets and ask the people if they have heard anything more about these witches that are causing us so much trouble.’

Witches...the word hung on the air like a whisper caught in torchlight. Alone and yet rapidly duplicating in the minds of every guard; and it would spread. Every time a guard asked a commoner about witches. Every time that commoner spoke to another commoner. A lie may run around the world before the truth has got its boots on, but even a lie runs a distant second to rumour - and Qiangdu had done his best to get rumour off to a flying start.

Jahat’s fury was palpable and he might even have made a good fist of storming out if the guards hadn’t tried to storm with him. Grand exits tend to lose something when the exiter gets jammed in the door.

‘You’ve certainly got annoying Jahat down to a fine art in a relatively short time,’ said Verence.

‘Yes, I’m quite enjoying it. I’m sure he’s out there working on revenge already.’

‘Preemptive revenge, more likely. Jahat is the sort of person who never thinks he can fail but still entertains ideas for brutal retribution anyway.’

Then the Gong did something rather strange. He held a finger up to his lip, stood up and beckoned Verence to follow. As he was doing this he began to speak in an elevated voice.

‘I will show you your room now,’ he said. ‘This is another reason Jahat was so concerned, it adjoins mine through this door. Of course it can only be locked from my side, so all is quite safe.’

The interior decoration of power in the Agatean Empire required that honoured guests should both see the wealth of the lord on display and know exactly how much less important they were than him. The Gong opened the door to reveal a suite not dissimilar though clearly somewhat smaller. Should the Gong ever have to entertain a higher ranking official he would have surrendered his own room and moved next door.

‘As you can see, you will find your new accommodation somewhat superior to your current arrangement.’

The Gong pointed to Verence and gave a wave of the hand. Verence had been furiously trying to figure out what was going on and now he realised this was part of some sort of performance to deceive any observer. He relaxed. He’d once been a fool and had been trained in performing, but more importantly he was currently a king and the art of good kingship relies on deceiving or, to give it its street name, diplomacy.

‘Thank you very much,’ Verence replied. ‘It is indeed superior to the cell.’

The Gong led him into the room, all the while pointing out various features to which Verence would provide some innocuous and appreciative response. Eventually they made it around the room and back to the door. He gave another hand signal for Verence to stop.

‘I will give you some time to refresh yourself after the ordeal you have been through,’ he said. ‘Please don’t try to use the other door. Jahat will have certainly placed guards there, for your protection, of course. If you need anything urgently just knock on this door. Otherwise, I will knock on the door to indicate when it is appropriate for you to enter. I think this arrangement will work best for now. I appreciate that this is perhaps not the correct way to entertain visiting royalty but then the style of your visit is also somewhat unorthodox.’

Verence smiled. ‘I think, considering the alternative on offer, that I will graciously accept the arrangement.’

‘Good,’ replied the Gong, waving Verence into his own room. ‘Enjoy your relaxation.’

The Gong closed the door with a loud click, then turned to Verence and again beckoned him to follow. They walked quietly into the Gong’s bedroom where he led them to a large wardrobe. He opened the door and indicated Verence should step inside. Verence blinked. He’d heard stories about the strange things royalty can get up to, some of which he’d rather hoped would happen to him, but squeezing into a wardrobe was not high on the list. Mind you, the more he thought about some of the kings and queens he’d encountered over the years, you couldn’t discount it. One of the perks of royalty is having considerably larger bounds of plausibility than the average Joe. He hesitated, but the Gong beckoned more urgently and then stepped into the wardrobe himself. Verence looked around the empty room for a few seconds and shrugged. He took the Nanny Option, which was to choose whatever looked the most interesting and go in hard. He strode across the room and stepped into the wardrobe.

***

‘You look like death warmed up,’ said Nanny. ‘And I should know. Seen enough of death in my time. Advantage of living a long life avoiding dyin’, I guess.’

‘I haven’t been sleeping well,’ replied Magrat.

‘No surprise there, what with Esmeralda being on the other side of the world ... oh, an Verence too, o’ course.’

It wasn’t so much that Nanny thought of Verence as an afterthought but rather that, when it comes to parents, the safety of the other parent is a full-blown forethought.

‘It’s true I’ve been worried sick about Esmeralda... and Verence, of course, but it’s something else that’s been the problem. Each night I get this recurring dream.’

‘Is it the one with the giant carrots?’

‘No...umm...what dream about giant carrots? That seems pretty strange to me. Are they meant to symbolise something?’

Nanny frowned. She’d had the dreamed of being chased by giant carrots regularly over the year. She’d never considered it symbolic before, but now that Magrat had set her train in thought....

‘No, definitely not,’ she said hurriedly, mostly because she wasn’t certain herself. ‘Go on.’

Magrat shrugged. She was used to the vagaries of Nanny and decided some stones were best left unturned.

‘I dream of a large glassy door. I can vaguely see a shape through it. The person on the other side keeps knocking and calling out. But I’m scared to let them in. It goes on for ages and finally wakes me up.’

Nanny thought long and hard about this before saying anything. There were myriad creatures that might choose to stalk a witch through her dreams. And then, because she was a witch she thought some more.

‘Glassy door, you say? Is it any particular colour by any chance?’

‘Funny you should say that,’ replied Magrat after a few moment’s reflection. ‘I think the door has been green every single time.’

‘Of course, I could be wrong and you’ll get attacked by brain-eating terrors from the dungeon dimension, but I reckon you should open it.’

‘But what if they are brain-eating terrors from the dungeon dimensions?’

‘Then the last thing you’ll be worrying about is telling me I made a mistake.’

****

Trying to teach the Nac Mac Feegle anything using traditional methods made herding cats look like a cake walk. It wasn’t that they weren’t enthusiastic about learning new fighting techniques, quite the reverse. They exhibited unbridled enthusiasm. It was the unbridled aspect that was the issue. Chaos was central to Nac Mac Feegle fighting, on both the giving and receiving end. It was proactive as well, not that the Feegles knew the word, they just took an approach based on thumping someone in case they were thinking of thumping them. This was a natural assumption as the people they most associated with were other Feegles.

Lu Tze had planned to train them in a form of martial arts that focussed on using the energy of the opponent, employing a system of learning through repetition. The technique was called wax on-wax off, but he was fast learning that the Feegles had more than enough of their own energy to burn and as for learning by systemic repetition....

He watched as Big Yan and Daft Wullie demonstrated to a circle of their comrades how to use the stance of the Expectant Crane. As with all instruction it was almost possible to teach the Feegles something in isolation. As with all instruction everything tended to go pear-shaped as soon as they had to engage with each other.

Even so, Lu Tze maintained hope, for what is life without hope?

‘Good pose, Daft Wullie. Big Yan, you can approach him now,’ Lu Tze instructed.

For the cruel length of time it takes hope to blossom things seemed to be going to plan. Big Yan approached carefully and Daft Wullie held his stance, until ....

‘Ya call that a crane, y’idjit?’ laughed Big Yan. ‘Wouldnae want to be Missus Crane y’ugly corbie.’

‘Oh, and ya reckon you’d be fair birdie do’ya, ya great scunner?’ shouted Daft Wullie. ‘A pretty wee cheepie thing?’

‘Who you callin’ a scunner ya scuggan?’

‘Scuggan is it?’

‘It’s you that’s sayin’ it.’

‘Cheepie wee birdie...’

‘Yer boggin’ for it. One more wee word...’

‘Cheep, cheep, cheep.’

‘Stitch this Jimmie.’

Lu Tze sighed as he watched the two students use every part of their anatomy on every part of their opponent’s anatomy. In a strange kind of way it was a beautiful display of totally unstructured combat. The remaining Feegles cheered on first one then the other.

‘Ach, t’is sheer mast’ry,’ cried Rob. ‘Ya missed a bit there Wullie,’ he added in encouragement.

‘Aye, it’s magic to watch,’ said a voice at Lu Tze’s knee. ‘Pure chaos. Yer goin’ aboot this the wrong way, Mister.’

Lu Tze looked down. The speaker was clearly a Feegle. It’s hard to confuse small blue men with an attitude problem with anything else. There was something different about this Feegle, though. A glint in the eye that suggested that not only was there intelligence there it even had a fighting chance of following a train of thought without the inevitable ten-second derailment that typically applied to Feegle thinking.

‘Wee Mad Arthur,’ the blue man said with a nod.

‘Good name,’ said the monk. ‘Lu Tze, though I’m sorely tempted with borrowing ‘Wee Mad’ to go with it.’

‘Ach, that maybbe yer first wee step to yer problem. Ta master the Feegles y’have ta think like them.’ Wee Mad Arthur paused. ‘Granted that no one can think quite like a Feegle, but ye need ta try. What’d be going thru their minds right now?’

‘Weevils?’

‘Ach, weel that could be true enuff, I waz thinkin’ moor metaforickly.’

Lu Tze’s eyes widened. Here was a Feegle to be reckoned with and listened to. Despite being, in a sense, metaphors for the dangers of alcohol, Lu Tze doubted there was another Feegle out there who knew what metaphor meant.

‘Chaos, then,’ he hazarded.

‘Closer.’

‘Nae king! Nae quin. Nae laird! Nae master!’ cried Daft Wullie in response to a well-placed boot. ‘We willna’ be fooled again.’

Then the penny dropped. ‘Rebellion,’ Lu Tze said. ‘Distrust of authority.’

‘That’d be the ones. So, how d’ya get someone who will never do what ye want them to to do what ye want them to?’

Lu Tze could see the answering lumbering towards him like one of those new locomotive things. ‘By telling them to do what you don’t want them to do.’

‘Aye. May seem counterintuitive but it’s reverse sycology at work there. I think I can lend ye a hand with that.

‘That’s Part One of the Plan,’ said Wee Mad Arthur.

‘There’s a Part Two?’

‘Och, aye. It’s maybbe even moor important. Ye have ta embrace the Feegle. Ride the dragon.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Think aboot it. If ever there waz a race designed to self-destruct, it’s Feegles. And yet here we are. How?’

Wee Mad Arthur was right. The Feegles has no concept of self-preservation. They simply shouldn’t exist. They should have been wiped out, possibly by themselves. And yet ....

‘.... because somehow all the crazy balances out? That the crazy actually is some sort of survival mechanism?’

‘Right agin. I always like ta think of the Feegles madness as a sorta gestalt.’

‘Gestalt?’ said the monk who was going through the surprising, probably unique, experience of having a more limited vocabulary than the Nac Mac Feegle you were talking to.

‘The whole o’ the Feegle madness is greater than the sum of its parts. Means puttin’ it all tagether brings in somthin’ else.’

The monk nodded. ‘So what you’re saying is I should be working with the madness, not against it. That the nature of Feegles is ... irrepressible.’

‘Aye. There’s only so much reverse sychology you kin use, ye ken. And you have to let the Feegles do it their own way.’

So began a new approach to the training. Lu Tze gave definite instructions on what not to do and then let the Feegles work with doing exactly what they were told not to. Wee Mad Arthur provided targeted encouragement from the sidelines.

‘Ach, that’s a fine piece o’ not doin’ what you’re told Rob,’ he yelled.

Rob Anybody grinned and did the unapproved move even harder.

‘Grade A rebellion there No’-As-Big-As-Medium-Sized-Jock-But-Bigger-Than-Wee-Jock Jock.’

The Feegle with a name considerably longer than itself swelled with pride.

Slowly Lu Tze became aware that something quite extraordinary was unfolding in front of him. The Feegles were blending the traditional moves with raw Feegleness and unpredictability to create a new form of martial art.

‘It’s almost like a ballet, Wee Mad Arthur. A brutal Feegle ballet.’

‘Aye and ye kin ge’away w’ callin’ it that because there’s no other Feegle oot there knows the meanin’ o’ the word.’

‘Well, I’m disappointed that none of you seemed to follow my instructions,’ said Lu Tze at the end of the training. Every single Feegle beamed with pride. ‘But I think we are almost ready and along the way you’ve created a uniquely Feegle form on martial art. What shall we name it?’

Despite the overwhelming majority of Feegles having no idea what uniquely meant, some even struggling with the word art, they cheered enthusiastically. The names came thick and fast.

_Stitchthisjimmie_

_Sezyou_

_Scuggins_

_Crivens_

_Upyatroosers_

_Gangaftagley,_

In the end they settle on Ihurtchu. It pretty much summed up the outcome and, as the Gonnagle noted, it sounded ‘verrry f’rrreign’.

Lu Tze smiled, but in that uncertain way people do when in the company of Feegles. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for a new form of Feegle martial art and he’d watched it evolve. What hope did the world have?

****

It is said that the teacher learns as much as the pupil. This had certainly been the case for Lu Tze with the Feegles. Alongside this training regimen the old monk was also providing private lessons to Nanny and Magrat. They were, after all, witches and the favourite place of all witches is right in the middle of things. If there was any training happening it was going to include them. Besides, Nanny was innately curious, and was keen to find out other ways to use her body as an offensive weapon, and Magrat had a husband and daughter to rescue.

Magrat was an excellent student in the traditional mould. It helped that, courtesy of a typological error when she was newlywed Verence had ordered a treatise on martial arts. Magrat, being a natural student had read it cover to cover and learned many of the moves. Verence had been deeply impressed and saddened at the same time. If only the right book had arrived and she’d applied herself in the same way to the positions presumably described in that book. Still, he’d reflected philosophical, you can’t complain about a lover who can put their body into contortions, even if those contortions are for self-defence rather than amorous offence.

Nanny, in her own fashion, which was how she learned everything, was a good pupil too, coming at the art form from the direction Verence had so desired. Technically, she was an older woman, but physically she was incredibly limber. Nanny was up for any position or move the monk showed her and then would invariably add her own twist, typically involving knees and elbows. Nanny had learned long ago that hard parts of the body were the natural enemy of softer parts. And if that didn’t work the boots she wore could have taken down a raging bull with a well-placed stomp. Nanny called this Kung Shoe.

‘Do’ya reckon we’re ready Lu?’ asked Nanny at the end of a particularly long training session.

‘I think that question deserves a good inscrutable, oriental answer, Mrs Ogg. Yes, I do think you’re ready but I’m not sure exactly what for. I think you’ve always been ready.’

‘Damn right Number One son,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t that the secret to living anyway?’

‘That and staying alive,’ said the monk.

‘Comes to the same thing doesn’t it Lu?’

The monk smiled. ‘Would this be one of those little tests, Mrs Ogg? Do you really think staying alive and living are the same thing?’

‘Not at all Gungadin.’

‘And that’s my answer too, leaving out the culturally inappropriate reference, of course.’

‘Can’t help myself with that, Lu.’

‘Another test? Of course you can, but you know that too. Besides, I’m not sure I’m quite ready for a restrained Mrs Ogg. Let’s gather the troops.’


	9. Cruel and unusual

Nanny,’ said Magrat excitedly the next morning, ‘it wasn’t brain-eating terrors from the dungeon dimensions. It was Esmeralda. She’s the one knocking on the door in my dream.’

‘Thought it was,’ Nanny replied with a broad smile.

‘How did you know?’

‘Well, it was a guess .... let’s just presume that some of me f’reign language skills come from friendly foreigners .... and that one of these f’reigners who took a shine to me might have called me a precious stone in his own lingo ... and that the word he used was esmeralda.’

‘He called you Esmeralda?’

‘Yeah, came as something of a shock, seein’ as that was Granny’s full name. Poor fellow got a face full of my slappin’ before he could explain he’d called me an emerald.’

‘Of course,’ said Magrat as realisation dawned. ‘I did know that but mostly I’d only ever thought of Esmeralda meaning Granny.’

‘Granny would have been pleased to hear that. She didn’t have much truck with jew’lry. See, I figure that your dreams was like a code and when you said the crystal was green I was pretty sure I’d cracked it.’

‘That’s very clever Nanny. Did you ever figure out what the giant carrots are about?’

‘What happened with Esmeralda?’ said Nanny hurriedly. ‘That’s the most important thing now.’

‘Sorry. You’re right,’ Magrat replied, neatly shifted off tack. ‘It was such a relief to know she’s alive. It was all very strange really. Dreamlike, of course. When I opened the door it was like I was looking out on the jungle. I tried to step through but there was a large invisible wall there. I could push it and it would bend, wobble even, but it was just too tough to fight my way through. I could see shapes moving on the other side and they came close to the doorway. There was a large shape and a small one. The large one looked human and the small one like an orangutan but ... this is the really strange part ... I knew the baby orang was Esmeralda. And then she smiled and waved and I knew she was telling me everything was fine. Then the door seemed to blur and I woke up.’

‘It’s a relief that the dear mite is safe.’

‘Not just safe Nanny. Happy.’

‘Could you see anything that would tell us where they are?’

‘Trees, but I wouldn’t imagine that’s a rarity in the jungle.’

‘Bit non-specific. Still, maybe it’s something you could work with. Be handy to know where they are.’

‘It’s also difficult to see through and I can’t get any sound either.’

‘Keep working on it,’ said Nanny thoughtfully. ‘The links between mother and daughter are about as strong as you can get, and it’s powered by witchery. Sounds like you might need somethin’ to boost the signal. Figure that one out and who knows what could come of it. Still, it’s handy to know Esmeralda is doin’ well.’

Magrat nodded, distractedly lost in her own thoughts.

****

Nanny sat looking out over the Chalk. It was hard without Granny. Esme had always been the one who understood the darker side of life, largely because of her own internal darkness. Granny wouldn’t disagree with that. She’d be the first to admit that the greatest arts of witching swam in the darker waters of humanity. And to swim there yourself you had to take on the darkness. The trick was to wear it like a cape, not as a skin.

Nanny had always played the comedic foil to Granny. The good cop to her bad cop. Now she had to play both, and that was a long way from easy. Oh, she had a dark side, true enough, all witches do, but Nanny had fought it tooth and nail. Tamed it rather than embraced it. She knew that goodness could only get you so far. This was going to involve a fair dollop of darkness and, gods help her, politics were going to play a part too.

‘What do I do Esme?’ she asked the growing twilight. Witches never like to admit to uncertainty but this doesn’t mean they don’t have it, and expressing that concern to the void was safe enough.

 _Stay true to yourself_.

‘Well, that’s not very useful is it,’ she replied. ‘Tryin’ hard not to be meself is the problem. Makes no sense.’

_Yes, it does Gytha._

And slowly, then suddenly, it did.

***

Then it was on to Ankh Morpork, with extra passengers. The Feegles made themselves at home in the bristles of both broomsticks. They were surprisingly light, which could have raised a whole new line of research in whether or not Feegle mass was somehow different to the traditional form if you could find a researcher that was brave enough to use the wee free men as subjects. Since the only thing Feegles were ever subject to was police investigations this promising line of study has, wisely, remained untapped.

It also made for an interesting journey. Nanny Ogg listened with amusement.

‘Them big jobs di’nae look so big noo,’ observed the bristles.

‘Aye, maybbe it’s time for an aerial visit.’

‘Crivens, that’d wipe the grins off the faces of them wee scunners quick smart.’

‘Ach, all bigjobs need to be bought doon a peg or two ....’

There followed some urgent whispering from the tail of the broomstick.

‘.... present company accepted,’ said an anonymous Feegle who just happened to sound like Rob Anybody. Rob may not have been the smartest of all the Feegles but he was generally streets ahead, possibly entire cities ahead, of most of his troop. This made him perfect leader material. Super smart leaders tend to have a poor record. They can fall victim to hubris (which Rob would presume was a many headed monster* to be attacked using the head in the conventional Feegle way), turn out to be nasty buggers or give up when they realised how ignorant most of their followers were. Reasonably smart was just about right.

* He’d be right.

There followed much debate about the launching of the attack which fortunately failed to reach a decision (a common hitch with Feegle planning) before they arrived. Nanny was vaguely disappointed. The Feegle approach to aerial attack involved using their kilts as parachutes and since no one knew what lay under the kilt until they looked up this view was the first stage of any attack. Sychological warfare takes many shapes and sizes.

‘Right,’ said Nanny as they debroomsticked. ‘Now to find the Other.’

****

The Faculty of Cruel and Unusual Geography had one member of staff, its Egregious Professor, Rincewind. This pleased Rincewind no end. It meant that there was never any dissention at staff meetings, the performance reviews were always positive (being conducted by Rincewind on Rincewind) and you never had to wonder who kept eating all the biscuits. It was self-evident.

The salary wasn’t great, largely involving food and coal for the furnace, but the major pay-off was total and utter boredom. Rincewind was a classic case for arguing that irony was a fundamental particle. There was probably no one on the Disc more adapted to boredom than Rincewind and at the same time no one more prone to end up in exciting situations, sometimes involving the saving of the Disc. The other example to support the irony theory is based on the likelihood of cats choosing the lap of the most felinophobic person at any gathering**.

** The counter theory that cats do this just because they’re nasty pieces of work also has some strong evidential basis.

Life had been blissfully quiet for Rincewind, a reality that gave him nightmares. In his experience the presence of bliss was just a precursor to terror, much like the lowering of sea before the tsunami hits. It was just a matter of time ....

... the door swung open with all the timing and style that melodrama could muster. In strode a woman in classic garb.

‘A witch,’ said Rincewind, almost with a sense of relief, ‘I should have guessed. You’re late,’ he added.

The witch shouted back out the door. ‘Found him.’

‘There’s more of you?’ Rincewind asked in mounting concern.

‘Oh yes, Lu Tze, Zhanshi and Nanny, of course. I’m Magrat.’

‘Magrat .... Nanny ... not Nanny Ogg?’

The witch nodded.

‘Oh gods, this one is going to be worse than I thought.’

‘This one?’

‘Nobody ever drops in just to say hello. Oh, no. It’s always, Rincewind we need you to save the world, but don’t expect any thanks. After that it’s mostly just screaming and running.’

Nanny Ogg bustled into the room. All witches have a bustling gene, Nanny’s had been refined to a professional level over the years, aided and abetted by a figure naturally inclined to bustling.

‘Wotcha, Rincewind,’ she greeted as Lu Tze and Zhanshi entered behind her. ‘We need you to help us on an exciting mission.’

‘And what if I say no?’

‘Ach, weel that’s where we come in, ya great streak o’ tremblin’,’ said Rob Anybody emerging from behind Nanny’s ample ground cover.

Rincewind’s eyes widened in horror. ‘The Nac Mac Feegle,’ he groaned. It took the prospect of conflict from advanced technology right back to the Stone Age, which is worse than the other way round when Feegles are involved. The Discworld didn’t need nuclear power - it had the wee free men.

‘This is going to end horribly, isn’t it,’ he wailed.

‘Hope so,’ agreed Rob.

Rincewind groaned again. He was the master groaning though, to be fair, he often had plenty to groan about. Far too many people pray for a god to watch over them without thinking much about the nature of gods. Being watched over by one of them might just be the start of your troubles.

‘I’m guessing I have no choice in the matter?’ Asked Rincewind, not out of hope, more out of universal expectation. The silence that followed confirmed it was a rhetorical question.

‘Good. That’s got the last vestiges of wishful thinking out of the way. I don’t need you to tell me why you need me. It will be for some noble cause that, up until now, had nothing to do with me. If I’m lucky my reward is to survive it. Just tell me what I have to do and then leave me in peace.’

‘Navigate us through L-Space to the city of Weizhi,’ said Lu Tze.

‘The capital of Bhangbhangduc? That’s in the bloody Agatean Empire. Do you know what happened to me the last time I was there? Do you know what will happen to me if I go back?’

‘Something cruel and unusual,’ said Nanny.

‘Exactly, which is why I need to avoid the place.’

‘Oh, sorry. My bad,’ answered Nanny. ‘I thought you were talking about what would happen to you if you didn’t come with us. Besides, they’re a Republic now.’

‘Republic, ha. Bet it’s a People’s Republic too. Watch this space. There’ll be a People’s Committee too. They’ll have their work cut out,’ growled the wizard. ‘And as for personal threats? Hello old friend. My classic motivation. Get Rincewind to help you by promising even more pain and suffering if he doesn’t. Why can’t you try positive motivation instead?’

‘It is positive,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘I’m positive you’ll be in a world o’ hurt Mister Wobblyknees. Now do what the hag asks befoor I lose me patience.’

Rincewind was familiar with last straws. He had enough to build himself a small cottage, which would, no doubt, have been blow down by a vagrant wolf. He was also an aficionado on threats. He could pick an idle one a mile away. In fact, a mile gave him plenty of time to leave a spinning chair as the only evidence of his existence. Much like dinosaurs who leave behind curious bones, whose main purpose is to keep archaeologists busy. He knew enough about the Nac Mac Feegle to realise that they had no concept of idle threats. Why make a threat if you didn’t plan to keep it? There was nothing idle about a Feegle who said they were running out of patience. He didn’t even need the additional information that up until recently Feegles had no concept of patience, other than a misunderstanding of spelling. Feegles did know about patients, largely as a consequence of their approach to settling disputes.

‘You do know how dangerous this will be? L-Space is an embuggerment.’

This was a poor tactic to use with Feegles.

‘Danger?’ said one of the small blue men who gave the immediate impression that when it came to the handing out of brains they hadn’t been able to find a teaspoon small enough. ‘We live fer danger.’

‘Aye, danger is oor middle name,’ said another.’

Really?’ said the first Feegle. ‘So me full name is Daft Danger Wullie? Crivens. I fancy tha’.’

‘No, Wullie, your middle name is idjit,’ said Rob. ‘It’s a metafer, ye ken.’

‘Och, I’m weary o’ those beasties. Why does all me metafers involve being an idjit? Wouldnae even recognise one if it bit me in the bum.’

‘Aye, Wullie. It’s a bit of a myst’ry to us too, that one. Still, we wouldnae be Feegles if one of us weren’t dumb as a box of hair.’

‘Is that another o’ them meta things?’

‘Could be. Could be.’

‘Ach, weel that make me feel a wee bit better.’

Rincewind gave up. The other secret of the Feegles was that they used intelligence like a blunt weapon and no amount of logical debate could survive long in their presence.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go with you as far as Bhangbhangduc and that’s it. I’ll hand you over to the Librarian to bring you back. Agreed?’

‘Well just havetae check that w’our legal team,’ said Rob. ‘Nanny.’

The old witch reached into her pocket, which was famous for both its carrying capacity and diversity of content, and drew out something appropriately unexpected.

‘Is that a toad?’ said the wizard in surprise.

The toad had spent an interesting time travelling in Nanny’s pocket. On the one hand it was warm and comfortable- on the other you had to share the space with everything Nanny thought might be useful. Still, the lot of a toad could be far worse.

‘Your powers of observation are extraordinary,’ the toad replied. Toads aren’t naturally sarcastic but this one had once been a lawyer who had crossed a witch and that definitely leaves the door open to Mr Sarcasm. ‘I am the Feegle’s lawyer.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’

‘I have heard the exact wording of your proposal and I think the Feegles will find the terms acceptable.’

The Feegles nodded. They had a deep and abiding fear of anything legal, courtesy of an incredibly long history involving misinterpretations of criminal behaviour. The toad was their shield against this murky world of right and wrong

‘Let’s be offski then,’ said Rob.

‘But just to be sure there is no misunderstanding on Mr Rincewind’s part about when and how he can leave,’ added Nanny with the sort of eagle eye that filled other raptors with envy, ‘I think he should have a Feegle buddy.’

‘Ach, tis a grand plan,’ agreed Rob. ‘And who wouldnae want to ha’ a Feegle for a travelling companion?’ he added in genuine belief. Feegles have got better at seeing other folk’s perspective, Tiffany had even run classically chaotic and confusing classes on it, but nothing could take away their fundamental belief that the world was a better place for having Feegles at the centre. And who’s to say their wrong?

William the Gonnagle, yoor noo the official travellin’ companion of this sack o’ misery.’

‘I’ll see you in the Library,’ said Nanny. ‘Give me half an hour. Just got a small errand to run. Don’t go without me.’

****

Verence had just discovered there was a specific version of claustrophobia called wardrobephobia. This is often the nature of discovery. Whilst some things are found out through diligent research most, like cramming into a wardrobe for the first time, involved an unexpected revelation. Though, to be fair, if Verence had had time to ponder the current situation he probably would have come to the same conclusion without the need of experimentation.

As he stepped in the door swung shut behind him with the sort of melodramatic clunk that is usually associated with amateur stage production. There’s nothing like darkness to sharpen the sense of fear.

Worse still, the space was truly crowded. As far as he could tell the wardrobe was filled with large fur coats. Why on the Disc would a wardrobe in a tropical climate be filled with winter garments? This was just bizarre. It also confirmed he was in some kind of nightmare. That’s the thing about real nightmares. They’re not just frightening, they’re deadset weird. Like the one with the giant carrots. Remember that one?

The urge to scream came on him like a runaway horse but just as he was about to give it its freedom the Gong spoke. The voice seemed to come from a lot further away than could be possible in a wardrobe.

‘I first entered the wardrobe a few years ago when I was just looking for anywhere to get away,’ he said. ‘It was a totally crazy thing to do, but I had no idea how strange it would be. I’d grab one of the coats if I was you and keep moving through.’

It took Verence a few moments to process all of this advice. With zero understanding of what all this meant and 100% trust, he grab a coat and pushed on through. To his surprise the coats began to thin out and the air grew rapidly cooler. The darkness was easing as well. Then with a final push he found himself standing in bright light, sinking slightly into the ground.

‘Snow!?’ he cried.

‘Takes you by surprise doesn’t it?’ replied the Gong, winning a gold medal in stating the obvious.

Verence looked around. Everywhere was snow-covered and tropical rainforest was absent in that same way family members are around that annoying relative that always turns at every family gathering. Creepers and jungle giants had been replaced by tall pines, all bearing an additional layer of snow that reminds the passer-by that with a simple shake of their branches you could discover a new world of problems. Not that the trees looked unfriendly but they didn’t look all that companionable either. It would be easy to think they were just being trees, but Verence got the strong impression nothing about this strange world would be easy.

‘Where are we?’

‘No idea. Another world? Somewhere else on the Disc? All I can tell you is it’s always been winter here, with no sign of Hogswatch. Oh, and the animals are different too. Seems like some of them are pretty intelligent. I think they may understand what you’re saying. Not that they hang around for long. Seems like they don’t have a liking for humans.’

‘Talking animals....’ said Verence, thoughtfully, ‘... another world .... I think I know where we might be.’

‘Go on. Anything you’ve got is better than I can offer.’

‘Have you heard about the Norns?’

The Gong frowned. ‘Mysterious old women who control people’s fate?’

‘That’s the ones. Spinning the lives of even the gods in threads they measure and cut.’

‘That’s me done for useful information,’ said the Gong.

‘Well, they’re so damn mysterious that nobody really knows where they lived. I’d heard that they had created a realm of their own and populated with all sorts of curiosities, including talking animals and then they’d abandoned it to someone else.’

‘And you think this might be the place.’

Verence nodded. ‘Yes, I think we may be in Nornia.’

***

‘What’s a Gonnagle?’ asked Rincewind as they waited for Nanny’s return.

‘Bit like one o’ yer bards,’ William replied. ‘Keeper o’ the clans history, teller o’ tales, singer o’ songs, player o’ the mouse pipes.’

‘That must make you fairly important.’

‘Aye and nay. It’s a prestigious position right enough, but it’s a lonely one. Ye may hae observes the Feegle are no great thinkers and put more store in usin’ their noggins as lethal weapons.’

‘Seems a fairly accurate description.’

‘So seein’ as I’m the clan thinker, aye it makes me important, certainly different, but a’cause o’ tha’ there’s a wee amount o’ fear there. Make me an ootsider, ye ken.’

Rincewind nodded in sympathy. He had always been something of an outsider, a fact not helped by being a wizard without any evidence of wizarding skills. This had all come about from bad luck in his early days as a student when one of the great spells had taken residence inside him for a while. Current theory is that this scared of any lesser spells (and just about every spell was lesser) and that they hadn’t got around to returning again. Not that it would have given him much joy to know but Rincewind was a hot research topic at Unseen University. There were two strands of research. One focussed on his anti-magic nature and the other on his extraordinary ability to survive. The reason he was unaware of this research was because, much to the Archchancellor’s disgust, the University had adopted an Ethics Committee to insure no inappropriate research occurred. This had led to Ridcully’s now famous statement:

‘Whatdyamean inappropriate? All research could be inappropriate. It’s how we change the world with it. Do ya want to see inappropriate? Try this for size.’

Ridcully was, in his own way, highly moral. He was many things, some of them even useful, but a politician he wasn’t. Sadly, the import of his message of freedom in research was lost in the subsequent actions, which definitely were inappropriate. This was why he now had an Ethics Committee, which he loathed to attend and drove all the other committee members mad when he did. It had also led to some interesting rulings regarding experimental subjects.

‘Are you saying we can’t use students to test things on?’ roared the Archchancellor.

‘Not without their permission,’ replied Adora Belle Dearheart. Adora Belle was the community representative on the committee, a position that had done nothing to assuage the Archchancellor’s growing horror of the EC. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Adora Belle was one of the few people in the city that could, pound for pound, take on Ridcully in an argument.

‘Well, how the hells are we going to make any progress with that sort of approach? And it’s not like we don’t have a surplus of first year students chewin’ through the buffet!’

‘You need permission, or incidental data capture.’

It was on these innocent enough conditions that Ridcully had suddenly demonstrated a wiliness that Wilbur the Wiliest Fox in the West would have considered pretty crafty. Incidental Data Capture, or IDC, had become the cornerstone of research, with the encouragement of the Archchancellor. No you couldn’t directly experiment on a student but if you could ‘incidentally’ collect data on people you could carry out research without needing approval or even awareness. This was why Rincewind’s jar of nail clippings had strangely disappeared and also why researchers were constantly offering to cut his hair. He’d accepted the offer once only to discover, perhaps not unsurprisingly, that other than in the beauty industry, researchers do not make for noted coiffeurs. It had taken months to grow the haircut out and it still made some smaller children scream on sight.

‘Yes, I can ken,’ replied Rincewind in sympathy. ‘No one really understands me. I’m an outsider too ... which is ironic considering how much I dislike the outside world. Not that I have a problem with being left alone, mind you. It’s inclusion that gives me the willies.’

Rincewind paused. ‘You don’t suppose that getting the willies comes from the Nac Mac Feegle, do you?’

‘I’d just aboot guarantee it,’ replied the Gonnagle, his eyes seeking out Daft Wullie as he spoke.

‘Right, I’m back now,’ called Nanny bursting into the room. ‘You ready Rincewind?’

It would be harsh to judge Nanny as self-absorbed, in the traditional sense. Nanny did place herself at the centre of things. The difference between her and attention-seekers was that the world placed her at the centre as well. Witches are attention-receivers ... and if that makes you an attention seeker, so be it. You’ve earned it. As for which came first, receiving or seeking, let’s leave that to the chickens to figure out.

‘People always ask that question,’ growled Rincewind, ‘when they should be asking the important one - ‘Are you prepared?’

‘Well, are yer?’ asked Nanny who had the ability to hold sophisticated discussions and play with semantics if she wanted to, but had found that one of the most effective philosophical positions to hold was ‘couldn’t be buggered’.

‘Of course we’re not prepared,’ Rincewind replied, his anger giving way to resignation - his go-to position. ‘Heaven only knows what the Disc will throw at us.’

‘That’s what we call livin’ me old china. Life would be so much duller if it was predictable.’

‘I know,’ said Rincewind, wistfully, ‘I know.’

By now the others had gathered around Rincewind, drawn into the wake of Nanny.

‘No, you can’t take your broomsticks,’ the wizard said as Nanny dragged here over. ‘No guarantee what would happen. Besides, it exceeds the travel luggage dimensions, especially with your own... dimensions...’

Rincewind found himself standing on the edge of an abyss. He’d stood at the edge of real abysses before but it turned out that metaphorical ones can be even more terrifying.

‘What do ya mean - my dimensions?’ Nanny asked, her permanent smile dangerously absent.

The point Rincewind had wanted to make was valid. L-Space was tricky and got easily spooked. It was never wise to combine significant weight, significant size and significant magic in one delivery package, unless you’d had high levels of training, like the Librarian. Nanny already had the magic, which she was aware of, and the broomstick would give her too much Size. The issue came down to weight. Rincewind stared into Nanny’s suddenly depthless eyes and did what any nature survivor does. He chose to dissemble, which is always a better class of lying.

‘I meant that you ... being Nanny ... have hidden and untapped depths of talent and we can’t risk adding a broomstick to that.’

Within a blink, just long enough for rapid assessment and acceptability to occur, Nanny’s smile returned and her eyes ceased to be pits of darkness.

‘Good point, Rincy. Never realised I had untapped depths,’ she said in a way that suggested she’d quite enjoy tapping them some time soon.

After that moment of terror the rest of the rigmorale of travel became less ... rigmoralish. Staring down a moment like that tends to soften further problems. Nanny had been the equivalent of a warm-up before the exercises hit. The biggest problem had been where the Feegles would travel now that the traditional broomstick bristles were unavailable. Generally, no one is that keen on carrying rambunctious*, small, blue men on their person, so it was fortunate that Nanny was in the travelling party.

* This is an accurate description of the Feegles but it’s not advisable to call one that to their face. Limited vocabulary is a dangerous thing, especially in the hands of the wee free men.

‘Life’s too short,’ was all she said. No one asked for clarification. The Gonnagle had to travel with Rincewind and Rob Anybody, who’d taken a general interest in the young Bhangbhangducian, chose to travel with Zhanshi.

The last two weeks had been, as classical authors might say, tumultuous for Zhanshi. He’d gone from his comparatively innocuous, comparatively safe role as an underground revolutionary to being part of an actual strike force. Possibly the most bizarre one ever seen on the Disc* but a genuinely revolutionary combat team nonetheless. He’d finally got used to the old witch with no discernible boundaries and he hadn’t minded the training and the old monk knew his stuff, it was just that it all seemed so .... impromptu. Who knew what would happen next? Zhanshi had always thought a revolution would be a lot better organised. He didn’t doubt that they could inflict a lot of damage, but he had a nagging suspicion that most of the damage they inflicted would be on themselves. This is not an unreasonable suspicion when Feegles are involved.

* Except for Mad Lord Dirigible’s Army Of The Inflatable Fish, which, after the first volley of arrows, also won the award for the Disc’s shortest lived army

Rob, who was a lot better at the thinkin’ than he’d care to admit to his clan, had sensed Zhanshi’s dilemma and had decided to lend him a hand. Feegle-style, of course.

‘Dinae fash aboot the plannin’,’ he said from the young man’s shoulder as Rincewind was getting everyone organised. ‘We hae wha’ ye might call a ‘loosely defined concept’.’

‘Loosely defined concept sounds like no plan at all.’

‘Ach, weel that’s where yer wrong. Mebbe it is no plan, but tha’s a type o’ plan in itself.’

‘No it’s not!’

‘Ye heard o’ the number zero?’

‘Of course.’

‘So, how di’ a number tha’ hae noot een it, get to exist?’

‘Because....well, you see ...’ Zhanshi drifted into that awful silence that few people have experienced. The one that follows being outsmarted by a Feegle.

‘Aye, you see noo,’ said Rob with a certain amount of satisfaction. ‘We hae a plan. Mebbe it’s got noot init, but it’s still a plan, ye ken.’

‘But, it just doesn’t seem ... sensible,’ mumbled the young man.

‘Ach, weel sensible ain’t a pictsie’s strong suit, so I’ll concede tha’. But if ye are prepared tae come w’us for the ride ye may change the world.’

Such is the siren song of the pictsie. The question worth pondering is whether the listener should be afraid of the rocks, or the rocks afraid of the listener.

‘Now, let’s talk aboot th’ important things. ‘Hae ye got a battle cry?’


	10. No harm in trying

Verence spun around at the ominous sound of loud click. No one knows why otherwise innocent sounds suddenly become ominous, though some research suggests a connection between this phenomenon and sphincter tightness. It takes a special kind of person to conduct this sort of research. To his horror he saw the door back to the Disc closing firming behind them. Now in its place was just another piece of forest whose only noteworthy feature was a complete absence of wardrobe doors.

‘Gods, what do we do now? How do we get back?’

‘That depends on what sort of story you want it to be,’ the Gong replied. ‘It’s quite traditional in the whole discovering-new-worlds-through-unexpected-doorways genre to have to travel across the new world, defeat a few monsters, including some of your own, solve some sort of puzzle or complete a feat, talk to an old beggar who turns out to be a magician and bingo, the door appears.’

‘That sounds horribly complicated.’

‘My thoughts exactly. What were those creators on? Just because we seem to be in some sort of story doesn’t mean you can’t have commonsense doorway design principles. Do you think the back of my wardrobe is always open to Nornia?’

Verence shook his head, and then a light dawned. ‘There’s some sort of door handle.’

‘Well done. Lever really. There are some conventions you simply can’t avoid. All I had to do was pull on the second coat hook to the right and then straight in to Nornia.

‘It was just luck I found it in the first place. Since then I’ve installed quite a few extra coat hooks and a special catch so we don’t accidentally have maids wandering in. Had to do all my handiwork myself to avoid arousing Jahat’s suspicion.’

‘Which means there’s a lever on this side too.’

‘Absolutely. Took an age to find too and even then it needed another secret door convention,’ said the Gong as he walked over to a tree and casually lent on a particularly large bole.

Suddenly the door that wasn’t became the door that was.

‘It turns out you can’t just press the thing, you have to do it as though you weren’t looking for it. Personally I think it would be better to have some sort of wall where you have to tap the bricks in a certain order using a magical wand but that seems a little far-fetched.’

The Gong lent on the bole again to close the gateway and then turned around, getting his bearings. ‘This way,’ he pointed. ‘One final tip,’ he added. ‘Avoid big rabbit holes. Now I’ve got someone you need to meet.’

****

The joy of being in a winter wonderland has a very short life expectancy when you find yourself ploughing through snow. Those with a poetic bent might say a cold coming they had of it...just the worst time of year for a journey ... and such a long journey ...the ways sharp and the weather deep ... but even that makes it sound a lot more pleasant than it was. That’s poetry for you. It’s dangerous in the wrong hands and even more dangerous in the wrong ears. Verence had a soft spot for poetry but it was rapidly freezing solid.

‘Whoever designed this world has a lot to answer for,’ he mumbled.

‘I think you’ll find it wasn’t the designer. Nornia was reputed to be some sort of paradise. The problem with paradises is that they tend to attract the attention of serpents. This is parasitic possession.’

‘Elves,’ said Verence in horror, memory generously recalling a previous nasty encounter with the race. Memory is an important survival mechanism but, like a variety of medical cures that involve a range of nasty concoctions and, occasionally, disturbingly shapes operating equipment, it’s not necessarily a pleasant experience.

‘More than likely, and the ring leader is the Alabaster Empress. She travels around the place on a big sleigh, pulled by wolves. There’s a nasty dwarf that travels with her too, and she’s got some sort of magical wand that can freeze you on the spot. Definitely want to avoid her. And there’s a dodgy faun going by the name of Mr Lumpy. Don’t accept any offers of tea from him.’

Just as things were starting to get complicated for Verence, a horn blew in the distance, a howl rose on the air and everything sharpened to one nasty, uncomplicated point.

‘Bugger, that’s her,’ cried the Gong. ‘Run.’

This was a reasonably enough plan, but is suffered three major weaknesses the Gong has to admit. For starters running and snow go together like swimming and jelly. It wasn’t that they were going nowhere fast, but somewhere slowly wasn’t much better. Which led to the bigger problem. The Gong had no idea where they were running too. They didn’t have a hope of making their destination so they needed to hide, neatly exposing the third problem. It may be possible to hide your tracks on certain surfaces. The epitome of a surface that doesn’t fit that category is snow. 

Behind them they could now hear the more imminent sounds of pursuit. The swish of the sleigh runners, the jingle of harness and crying joy of pursuit.

‘There they are, your Empressness,’ a voice shouted.

Verence and the Gong both took a moment to look over their shoulders. Sure enough there was the sleigh closing in fast. The wolves didn’t look like the type that were ever friends with Mr Happy, except for possibly right now.

The dwarf cracking the whip was nothing like the dwarves back at home. Sure, he covered all the technical aspects, but even from this distance there was an aura about him that no Discworld dwarf Verence had encountered possessed. Disc dwarves could be mean, nasty and self-absorbed, just like other people, but this creature radiated evil.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The worst of it stood proudly on the back of the sleigh. A tall figure, clothed in a white gown, topped with a crown of ice - the Alabaster Empress didn’t appear evil. There is a darkness, an emptiness that sits on the other side of evil and gives evil nightmares. This was where the Empress lived.

‘I want them alive,’ she cried.

‘So do we,’ shouted back Verence.

It was at that moment, distracted by the Empress but still ploughing forward, that they fell down a rabbit hole. A big one.

****

‘Well that was fun,’ said Nanny, shaking herself down, resulting in a great shower of little blue men. ‘Lucky I’m ticklish.’

Most people, when given a choice between being ticklish and not, chose the latter, but Nanny was not most people. The Feegles were the sort of passengers that couldn’t sit still to save themselves. Nanny had laughed her way across L-Space.

‘Aye,’ replied a dazed looking Daft Wullie. ‘So warm. Where waz you Big Yan? Couldn’t find yer anywhere.’

‘We climbed some mighty peaks,’ the other Feegle replies. ‘T’was a rare view got.’

‘Ach. Weel I crossed a fearsome plain in the dark. Weren’t a wee thing either. ‘n’ then I tumbl’d doon this mighty crevasse. T’were only me spog that saved me when it wedged tight. You should hae seen this place it were .....’

.... Daft Wullie did a fine job of living up to his name but slowly, like a glacier grinding out a valley, realisation sank in.

‘Och, waily,’ was all he could say. It was enough. The look on his face gave Nanny the biggest laugh of all.

‘You did well getting us here,’ said Magrat to Rincewind, with that desperation that comes from time spent with Nanny in the company of Feegles.

Rincewind didn’t smile because the muscles involved in that action had long since forgotten what to do, but he nodded with a vague look of surprise. Even that took some facial effort. Mostly, nothing surprised him anymore, but praise was unexpected. Travelling L-Space was more complicated than just having the right map. You needed ironclad certainty or L-Space would have you for breakfast, or any other suitable meal. The Librarian had built his around the confidence of knowing where he was going and that he’d get there with all limbs still in the right place. But each traveller’s certainty had to be true to their nature and positivity was not part of the Rincewind lexicon. Negativity, though, was right up his alley, and its bedfellow, knee-trembling fear. Rincewind’s ironclad certainty was constructed on the firm foundations that if he cocked up there wouldn’t be any Rincewind left to pick up the pieces, wherever they ended up. One could argue that a life built around fear is a life half lived, but Rincewind was happy to settle for a half-life over bibliographic dismemberment. Fear had made him a master traveller of the L-Space dimension.

Lei Ching had been surprised by the sudden appearance of the travellers, but quickly took it in stride. Anyone who has ever worked in a library has had to learn how to cope with questions whose craziness can only be exceeded by the mental landscape of the questioner. Librarians, at least the ones that survive, are both resilient and adaptable. She ushered them into a quiet enclave in the library, where planning, such as it was, took place.

‘Lu, can I have a quick word with first,’ said Nanny.

The monk nodded and they moved to a more discrete part of the bookshelves.

‘You’re not coming with us, are you?’ said Lu Tze as they ambled over.

It wasn’t easy to surprise Nanny but she had to concede points to the monk. ‘How did you know?’

‘When you’re as old as I am you get to read people, or you don’t get to be as old as I am.’

‘I’m worried, Lu. I’m worried that what we’re doing just won’t be enough. Oh, it’s fine we’ve got the Feegles, and they’re a fearsome force, but they’re more like a natural disaster waitin’ to happen. We need more. And I’ve decided it’s up ta me to find it.’

‘I can see you’ve got an idea too. I understand,’ Lu Tze replied. ‘The armies against us have built themselves around certainty, regimented training and predictability. We can’t beat them at that, which is why we need to be unpredictable. Go ahead with your plan and don’t tell me what it is. Just make sure you’re there when you need to be. Now, tell me about the other thing.’

‘Damnit, Lu, how do you do that?’ Nanny snapped. ‘That’s me own private problem.’

‘Can’t be a good monk if you don’t do mysterious things. Otherwise I’d just be a priest was lower dress standards. Behind the public Mistress Ogg is the private Mistress Ogg, and she’s got depths that go a lot further than some mighty crevasse. And it’s pretty lonely in there, isn’t it?’

Nanny sighed. ‘Sure is Lu. And confusin’. Me and Granny were a team. We both had our weakness, true enough, but together we could help cover those up. What do you auriental folk call it? Ping and Pong?’

‘Ying and Yang.’

‘Thank the gods for that. I was thinkin’ I must o’ been Pong and, I got to say, that wasn’t all that appealin’. But now I’m just Ying, or Yang ... and it’s not enough.’

‘But you know what you have to do.’

‘Yeah, find some Granny in me, but it’s just not there. All I seem to find is 100% Nanny.’

Lu Tze smiled. ‘You do know that the answer is there if you think about it, and that because I’m a monk I can’t tell you exactly what it is. It’s the being cryptic clause in a monk’s contract. Tell me this, though. When the sun shines on the flower what happens to the sunlight? Does it disappear?’

Nanny frowned. Monks were tricky little buggers. They made you do your own thinking, which was generally a problem for your average human who preferred to let others do the work for them. It’s why the glorious course of human history could also be described as one long, evergrinding trainwreck.

‘Course not,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s still there, just different. Changed. It’s part of the flower now ... oh.’

Lu Tze smiled.

****

The plan was simple enough, which is an often overlooked aspect of good planning. It wasn’t the simplest of plans, mind you. When dealing with the removal of a figure of power, murder was always an option, but this was the Aurient and everything was more complicated, especially now with the temporary emergence of the Republic.

Death by politics and public opinion was the best choice, and the cleanest way to achieve this was through charges of disloyalty. It tied nicely into sedition as well, which was always a winner in the Empire. Maybe it was a Republic, but all the same fears were there and could be manipulated. He’d send a message back to the new Republic, something fairly low-key, to say an unfortunate problem of disloyalty was being addressed. For good form he’d invite someone to attend the trial. And what a trial it would be. He already had witnesses, courtesy of some discrete bribes and the ever-reliable death threats, that the Gong had been working against the Empire….Republic … for his own interests. The trial would play out in public and the People would end up willing judges and executioners themselves.

That would leave a power vacuum and who better to fill it than Jahat himself? The right man in the right place. There was a knock on his door. Jahat smiled. It would be tempting to describe it as a reptilian smile, but this would have been an unkind comparison, to reptiles.

And so it begins.

*****

Tradition suggests falling down a big rabbit should be a strangely surreal and largely tumble-free experience. Tradition is often out of step with reality. Verence and the Gong tumbled, scraped and bashed their way through what was anything but a surreal experience. If anything, it was subreal. It only took a few seconds but they were amongst the most intense seconds of their lives.

As they rolled to a battered and bruise halt a rough voice shouted ‘Start backfilling, you mangy lot.’

It’s not easy to find your senses, let alone come to them after such an ‘adventure’. Verence could see, after the spinning had stopped, large shapes moving past him in the low light. This was followed by scraping sounds which, combined with a steady, near lethal shower of dirt, made it clear major excavation work was underway.

‘Shazza,’ the voice shouted, ‘give Whacker more room. Ya can’t do it on yer own. Davo, you keep yer eyes on the tunnel walls. We don’t want a cave-in like the one that did for poor Brucey, rest his bleedin’ soul. Where the hell is Jules?’

‘It’s her smoko time, boss,’ rumbled a reply from the excavation site.

‘Bugger. She’s a ripper at this sorta work. Fair call, though. Reckon we can sort it out without her.’

The madness continued, giving Verence and the Gong time to absorb the dramatic changes they’d become part of. In the strange whisper of light that was coming from the walls of the tunnel, courtesy of some strategically placed glow worms, they could see something of their rescuers, which could mean new captors depending on how this played out. Humanoid wasn’t the right word and talking animals just didn’t do it justice. People are prone to anthropomorphism at the drop of a hat, which is just about as arrogant as it can get, when you think about. What they were, were very large animals, solid as rocks, as tall as wide, with claws that looked like they could dig through anything, and probably had. Any miner who saw them in action would put down their shovel and go home. They could move on two legs, but seemed very comfortable on four.

Eventually the leader bellowed a halt. ‘That should keep the crazy witch busy for a while. Time to get diggin’ at the other end now. Ah, Jules, finished smoko?’

‘Yeah Wazza.’

‘Great. You get the others and dig us a side tunnel. See if ya can get to the river bank.’

‘That’s a bloody long Boss, but we’ll do what we can.’

Wazza nodded. Apparently in this group ‘doing what we can’ meant yes.

‘Alright, you lazy lot, follow Jules and try not to buggerit up like Johnno did, rest his bleedin’ soul. And don’t be a larrikin either Davo. What’s our motto?’

‘A smartarse wombat is a dead wombat, Boss,’ mumbled Davo.

‘We can all thank Smithy for that one, rest her bleedin’ soul.’

‘Right, you two’ said Wazza loudly even though he was standing only a couple of feet away, ‘what the hell is going on? And who the devil are ya?’

‘Well, I’m the Gong...’

‘The Gong? Is that for real? Sounds like a place name to me. Like Woollygong - the big smoke we used to live near. Had a lot of sheep,’ he added.

‘Ummm...,’ replied the Gong, a natural response when the world has gone crazy and now started demanding answers, ‘it’s who I am and this is Verence.’

‘That’s more like it.’ The giant creature paused and thought. ‘We’ll call ya both Gongy and .... What’s yer other name mate? Vezza just doesn’t work.’

‘Don’t have one,’ replied Verence cautiously.

‘That’s bloody unhelpful. Whatdaya do?’

‘I’m a king.’

Wazza’s reaction was not what Verence expected. He roared with laughter. ‘Bloody nothing then.’

The other wombats laughed with their leader. ‘We don’t have a lot of time for royalty, here. Still, ya don’t look like yer usual king. Got a lot more chin for starters. Besides, ya can’t help what you was born inta. We’ll call ya Kingy, alright?’

The other diggers nodded in agreement. This seemed to pass the naming test. Verence nodded, this being the safest and probably only thing to do. On reflection, it could have been a lot worse.

‘Good. Glad we’ve got that sorted. My name’s Warren* but ya can call me Wazza. Don’t bother telling us anything more about yerselves. Bet you came here through some sorta doorway?’

* All wombat leaders are called Warren, irrespective of gender. It comes with the territory.

‘Wardrobe,’ replied Gongy.

‘Bloody wardrobes. Get ya every single time. Trev tunnelled us here, the bloody idiot. He was the first ta see the witch, rest his bleedin’ soul.

‘Yer our mates, now, because anybody that that cow is chasing hasta be. Ya here for a reason?’

‘We need to see another visitor. I brought him here for his safety recently.’

‘Here? Must be a nasty place you come from.’

‘It is. Didn’t seem such a bad idea at first. Nornia seemed more pleasant then. I think time moves differently here.’

‘Yeah, well that’s time for you. Tricky bugger,’ observed Wazza, neatly encapsulating some of the most thought-provoking research in the multiverse in two incredibly accurate words. ‘So, who’s yer mate?’

‘He looks a bit like us.’

‘No that helpful mate. Any distinguishing features? Birthmark? Tatts?’

‘Not really. I mean he could have a birthmark or tattoos but it’s not where I’d go looking. He does wear glasses.’

‘Glasses. Ya shouldda said that first. Ya mean Specs.’ Again Wazza paused. ‘We’d a called him Foureyes once, back home, but we’re learnin’ to be more ... respectful,’ he added proudly. Ain’t that right, mates? What’s our other motto?’

‘Don’t be a rude knobhead,’ the others replied.

‘Exactly. One of me favourites, that one,’ Wazza said with a smile. ‘We know where Specs is. He’s been hangin’ out with Leon a lot. We’ll take ya there as soon as we can. Jules, hook a right with the tunnel and head for the hills.’

****

The announcement by Nanny that she was going her own way wasn’t the surprise it could have been, courtesy of Rob Anybody, who’d been listening into the private conversation between her and Lu Tze. Feegles have no concept of private, which is why they’re constantly surprised when people take offence to eavesdropping and assorted property acquirement practices, often involving sheep. Nanny didn’t mind because she had a very liberal view of private as well. The theory she had been a Feegle in a previous lifetime (or was building up to one in the next) had plenty of circumstantial evidence. Nanny liked circumstantial because she couldn’t resist a good circumstance to try on for size.

Surprise may not have been on display but distress was.

‘Ye cannae leave us,’ wailed Big Yan. ‘What’ll we do wi’oot a hag?’

‘You’ve got Magrat,’ Nanny replied.

‘Oh, aye, boot she’s nae Nanny Ogg,’ said Daft Wullie. ‘She’s more o’ a great big ....’

‘Wullie,’ said Rob who knew that no matter the witch, insulting one wasn’t going to lead to an attractive outcome, ‘remember what I said about speakin’?’

‘Aye,’ replied Wullie with his head hung down. ‘If’n I cannae think afore I speak it’s be better fer me to stick me head up ...’

‘That’d be another example Wullie,’ Rob cut in hurriedly.

‘What am I a great big example of, Wullie?’ said Magrat coolly.

‘Ummmmm....’ replied the pictsie, who had faced down many fearsome foes, but none scared him more than the challenge of finding the right word. ‘.... a ... great ... big....hag?’

Magrat held his gaze for long enough for the Feegle’s knees to start trembling and his bladder to become a lot more evident and then she smiled. ‘That’s a good answer, Wullie,’ she said.

‘Is it?’ the Feegle replied in surprise. ‘Crivens! That were nae expected. Haven’t had one o’ those in a long time.’

The pictsie raised his arms and did a victory lap around the group. We all have our own standards of success. Wullie was blessed with having low ones, which left plenty of room for celebration.

The upshot of this was that the tension had defused somewhat in the group. It had also made good Nanny’s escape and Magrat’s ascension to head hag unquestionable, even by Magrat.

‘What’s the plan Nanny?’ Magrat asked.

‘I’m goin’ to raise my own strike force. Had the idea a while ago,’ she replied. ‘The one thing I need you all to do is spread the word that witches are about. Got that? Good. I’ll meet you in the jungle when I’ve sorted things out.’

‘The jungle is a big place, Nanny. Where? When?’

‘Where we’re needed and at the turning of the tide.’

‘Do you know how meaningless those instructions are,’ said Magrat. ‘Next you’ll be talking about navigating by stars until morning.’

‘Besides, we cannae see the tide from the jungle I’m a reckonin’,’ added Wullie who was keen to ride the Thinking Dragon as long as possible.

Nanny looked at Lu. The monk winked. ‘It’s a metaphor Wullie.’

‘Ach, one of them scuggans agin,’ the Feegle grumbled, his moment of intellectual glory now passed. Still, he brightened, he’d had one good answer. He’d save that for another time.

The monk reached into his robe. ‘Even History Monks have to move with the times,’ he said, ‘if you’ll pardon the pun. Take this Mrs Ogg. It will tell you when the time and place is right.’

He drew out a large pocket watch and flipped it open.

‘Hello,’ squeaked a small voice and a tiny creature emerged. It looked around and then bowed.

‘Improbable, at your service,’ the imp said.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Robable,’ said Nanny who was rarely fazed by anything. ‘I’m Nanny Ogg, and it’s your job to keep me on time. I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.’

The imp looked at Nanny and knew in its heart of hearts that keeping this new owner on time would be no mean feat, but he was a professional to the core. He’d have girded his loins if anybody could tell him exactly what that entailed. He made a mental note to check his database later.

‘Right, now that’s all sorted I’ll be off,’ said Rincewind, picking up his heavy satchel.

‘Ach, ya bunty bigjob, tha’s a a load o’ blethers. You’ll nae be gang awa’. We hae ya by the geas,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Dinnae cack yer kicks. Ye hae to face yer dree.’

Rincewind frowned. There are times when even fair mastery in foreign languages suffers defeat at the hands of the Feegle lexicon.

The Gonnagle, who has been sitting on Rincewind’s shoulder dropped to the ground.

‘What Rob has just said is that you have nae got the facts right and you willnae be leaving us, due to the wee matter o’ the contract,’ he said.

‘Right,’ replied the wizard. ‘And bunty means ...’

‘Och, that’s nae important,’ replied the Gonnagle.

‘And are there any large birds involved?’

‘Ah, a common wee misunderstandin’ when it comes to a geas. Nae. Tha’s yer contract and your dree is yer fate.’

‘Ok. And I think I can figure out cack yer kecks. Good. I think that’s all in order,’ the wizard looked around and bent down to adjust his boots. From this perfect position he leapt forward, sprinting through the library and into the unknown. Rincewind has never had many concerns with uncertain futures, it was the certain ones that made him want to cack his kecks.

That was the plan anyway, which was light on a lot of detail, including the part where his legs were spinning but the world wasn’t going anywhere fast. This is an inevitable consequence when a Feegle is holding onto your cape. No one knows why Feegles are so strong. This primarily because the pictsies are not known to appreciate the attentions of researchers and most researchers, in a satisfyingly Darwinian way, appreciate the art of survival, nearly as much as they aspire to the elusive pleasures of practicing procreation.

After a few more futile moments Rincewind’s legs stopped spinning. ‘Alright, what contract?’ he snapped.

Nanny drew the toad out of her pocket at the Gonnagle’s request.

‘The one where you promised to travel with the Feegles to Bhangbhangduc...’

‘Which I’ve done.’

‘.... and hand them over to the Librarian.’

‘That’s rubbish. I never said that.’

‘Yes, you did,’ replied the toad.

‘Prove it.’

‘It was a verbal contract. Verbal is how the Feegle do business,’ the amphibian retorted.

‘Unless you can prove that, categorically, I’ll be gang awa’, as sure as the gods made little green apples.’

Rincewind’s argument caused the Feegles no small amount of consternation. Whilst they wanted to bind the wizard to them they had a loathing and fear of any form of legal contract. It was why they employed the toad in the first place, and were generally right on the side of anyone who could slip free from the clutches of legality.

‘Ye leery scuggan,’ was the best Rob could come up with in reply.

Into the growing silence, the Gonnagle spoke. ‘Perhaps your wee pocket watch could help us oot, hag?’ he said to Nanny.

Taking no offence to the term hag, it was really impossible to be specifically offended by the Feegles, Nanny drew out the watch and flicked it open.

‘Mr Robable,’ she said, ‘you don’t happen to have some magical power to recall conversations, do ya?’

‘No,’ replied the imp.

‘Shame.’

‘It’s not magical, it’s technical,’ the imp continued demonstrating that flair for precision that all too often leads to shortening life expectancy at the hands of frustrated listeners. It also made him a perfect candidate for a customer service job in many government agencies.

‘Let me see,’ he said. ‘I think I can find it.’

There followed a strange scrabbling noise as though the world had decided to record itself running backwards, and then it stopped. ‘Here we go,’ Robable said.

A tinny, but distinctly Rincewindian voice, cut the air.

‘All right,’ it said. ‘I’ll go with you as far as Bhangbhangduc and that’s it. I’ll hand you over to the Librarian to bring you back. Agreed?’

‘Ha,’ said the toad, at its conclusion. ‘One of the conditions of your release is bringing us to the Librarian and until you meet that the contract is still binding.’

The gathered Feegles sighed in relief, mixed with sympathy for the legal victim. Rincewind also sighed a much darker and bleaker sigh. If resignation to the inevitable could have a sound it would have been that sigh. It was also a close and familiar friend to the wizard.

‘Alright,’ he moaned, ‘I’ll come with you. Can’t say it surprises me.’

‘That were a good attempt though, for a bigjob,’ said Rob. ‘Nae harm in trying.’

‘Mr Anybody,’ Rincewind growled, ‘you have no idea how much I hate those words. If ever there was a place to find harm it’s when you start trying. Alright, what now?’

****

The Luggage stirred from its quasi-hibernation on top of the wardrobe in Rincewind’s chambers. It opened the eye it didn’t have and glared malevolently at the world. The room was empty, which was how it usually was during the daytime but something wasn’t right. All luggage has a strange deep connection with its owner. Anyone who doubts this need only recall those moments when you discover a long-lost suitcase that you’d sworn you threw out to realise this. Luggage is bonded, except, of course when it gets lost on overseas journeys, which is the natural order of things.  
The Luggage realised that somewhere out there was a space where it’s owner used to be and now wasn’t.

The Luggage had come to Rincewind through a former owner, Twoflower,a resident of the Agatean Empire. Twoflower had given it to Rincewind and, despite it probably having saved his life many times, he still wasn’t sure if he’d been stiffed on the deal.

The difference between the Luggage and luggage, was that the former was made from sapient pearwood and the later generally wasn’t. Sapient pearwood is a magical plant and anything made from it has particular magical properties, which apparently include an anger at the world that could be measured on scales usually reserved for earthquakes.

The other difference was that right here and now, the Luggage could do something about its missing owner. It leapt off the wardrobe with a crash and then rose up on countless feet. Just because the feet didn’t look at all like they belonged there didn’t mean a damn thing. It turned it’s self around to orientate. After a moment its lid opened slightly. A casual observer may have said it grinned, or possibly was baring its teeth. In the case of the Luggage both assumptions would be accurate, typically at the same time. It wasn’t so much about orientation as aurientation.

The Luggage ran forward and the universe, that knows when to get out of the way, did so. The travel accessory leaped into a shimmering patch of air and disappeared from the world of men … and women … and pretty much everything … but you got the feeling this wasn’t going to be for as long as it took, for example, a magical ring, to re-appear.


	11. Strewth

The subterranean journey was surprisingly quick. The wombats were perfect digging machines. The trick was to stay out of their way as the dirt flew backwards. It’s easy to imagine the art of digging a tunnel is a simple process but there’s a couple of matters that are often overlooked by those who only go down holes when reading fairytales. For example, what happens to the dirt you’re digging and, even more importantly, how do you breath?

The solution, if you’ve cut off the main entrance, is to have another point of egress to allow in fresh air and the removal of tailings. Thanks to the forward thinking nature of Wazza, they had one of these and, thanks to a bit of good fortunate they’d discovered a cave system nearby. Not only did this make the going easier when the cave headed where they wanted to go, it was a perfect dumping ground, much to the horror of any speologists.

The going would have been even quicker if it wasn’t for smoko. This practice, which seemed to have a deeply religious flavour, involved stopping regularly for a cup of tea, a bite to eat and plenty of random conversation, which could generously be called ‘shooting the breeze’, but more accurately belonged to the conversational category known as bullshitting. It didn’t seem to matter how pressing the situation was; when smoko rolled round, all work ceased.

‘You seem to have a lot of fatalities in your work,’ said Gongy during one of these breaks.

‘Yeah,’ said Wazza. ‘It’s high risk, but it’s good for long term survival.’

‘Sorry?’, replied the Gong, trying to figure out how death was a useful aspect of survival.

‘Ah. You’ve never heard of Darwin?’

Gongy shook his head.

‘Fair call. Darwin is a city back in our homelands. The biggest problem there were the crocs. Nasty buggers that’d eat ya as soon as look at ya. If ya went swimming it was just about guaranteed you’d end up crocodile guano. Guess what happened to the local population over time?’

‘They stopped swimming.’

‘Or got bloody good at swimming fast. The crocs helped get rid of the stupid ones who thought a dip on a hot day was a good idea and helped us breed damn good swimmers. We’re pretty famous back home for our swimmers. We call it Darwin’s theory of natural selection.’

And so it continued. Time seemed to lose all meaning underground, though the Gong reminded Verence that time moved differently here and many days could only count as a few minutes back home. Eventually Davo informed the group that they’d arrived. Quickly they tunnelled upwards and broke through near the base of a series of hills.

‘Thank you Wazza, and all of you for helping us out,’ said Verence, individually shaking each paw, with the Gong following along behind doing the same.

‘No worries Kingy and Gongy. Anybody who’s tryin’ to bring down some tall poppy and look after the little bloke is alright by us,’ replied Wazza who, in no physical sense could ever claim to be little.

‘What are you going to do now?’ asked Kingy.

‘Keep in diggin’. See if we can find our way back.’

‘You’d be welcome on our world, if you’re interested,’ Kingy offered. ‘Xxxx sounds like your sort of place or you could try back in our part of the world, though the digging could be tough. We could always do with high quality excavation experts...though the dwarves might get a bit annoyed. Doesn’t take much to annoy a dwarf. Have you met any dwarfs?’

‘Dug across a couple here. Know what ya mean. They were fair pissed off when we dropped into a tunnel unannounced. Not really our cup o’ tea.’

‘Why? You’re both diggers,’ said Gongy.

‘Yeah, but we dig for the joy of diggin’. They dig for the joy of findin’ gold. Once yer motivation becomes about money you’ve missed the point entirely.’

Wisdom comes in many guises, if at all, and one of those is the ability to realise you presume things about other people at your own peril. In one brief observation Wazza had summed up one of the fundamental problems with capitalism as a way of life. Wazza was as sharp as the claws he used for digging.

‘Righto, there’s a cave at the bottom of that first hill,’ said Wazza. ‘Best of luck Gongy, Kingy. Might take your tip on vistin’ your place sometime. That continent of Xxxx, you mentioned sounds a lot like home. Tell Leon Wazza and his mates say g’day.’

With one final wave the pair left the hole and made their way over to the base of the hill. The cave proved easy to find or, more accurately, the guards of the cave were easy to find. After that, easy could have turned quite rapidly into hard, particularly as the guards were a pack of wolves that looked like they were a few meals short of happy, if Verence hadn’t suddenly remembered to ask for Wazza’s g’day to be passed on. The name Wazza had caught the pack leader’s attention but it was the word g’day that seemed to confirm some level of legitimacy.

‘Wait here,’ the leader growled, only to return a few long and uncomfortable minutes later (its standard to feel uncomfortable in the presence of wolves) to invite them in. The Gong, who had never seen a wolf before, couldn’t help but feel the pack was disappointed at this positive turn of events. One person’s positive is rarely universal.

They were greeted at the cave mouth by a satyr* and ushered into a large cave where a small fire threw wild shadows into a madcap dance on the cavern walls. The setting was surreal enough as it was; a situation that, in Verence’s eyes, wasn’t helped by the presence of a large lion at the fireside, deep in conversation with a man wearing traditional Bhangbhangducian garb.

* A creature that is half man, half goat. It’s wise not to think about what inter-species activities led to this branch of evolution

The Gong, though, let out a cry of recognition. The man looked around and smiled. It’s possible the lion did as well, but’s it’s always tricky to tell when the smiling involves so many large, sharp teeth.

‘Ah, Gong,’ the man called out. ‘Good to see you. And you’ve got a friend. Bring him over.’

As Verence and the Gong approached the fire the lion stood up. And kept standing up. Verence had once seen a lion in a private menagerie. It had been a sad, sorry thing. Lean and listless. Coat dull and mangy, eyes distantly roaming the plains of its lost freedom. This lion was everything that one wasn’t. It was immense in size, bearlike, and had a girth that had nothing to do with fat and everything to do with muscle. Its hide glowed with an energy that was only outstripped by the fire that burned in its eyes. The sort of fire that wasn’t about keeping warm. Some fires are good at that sort of thing. This was the other kind of fire. The one that consumes and spreads.

‘Strewth,’ said Verence. It was a curious word he’d picked up from the wombats which was perfectly suited for moments like these.

‘Gong, this is Leon. And who might your friend be?’ said the man in glasses.

The Gong, who had just shared Verence’s moment of strewthness, gulped and found his voice. ‘This is Verence. He’s the king of Lancre, back home. Verence, this is Liang Duo Hua, but he is better known in Bhangbhangduc as the Teacher.’

‘Or Specs, by Warren and his friends. I must thank him for looking after you both the next time I see him. I’ve just been talking with Leon about the problem of the Alabaster Empress. We could use a fresh perspective,’ the Teacher continued as though the two had just joined a pleasant afternoon tea party that didn’t, this being the important part, feature a lion the size of a horse.

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ rumbled the lion in a voice that made you look around for the impending storm. ‘Any friend of the Teacher is welcome at my fireside. I sense you have already met that woman and have seen what she has done to this land. Your assistance in dealing with her would be greatly appreciated.’

Here’s the curious thing. Both Verence and the Gong got the impression that Leon was inviting them to contribute and that it was entirely optional, but it never occurred to them not to. It probably helps to inspire involvement when you’re being asked by a very large lion. Perhaps not that curious, after all.

The lion explained to them that many centuries ago he came to this land and shaped it around him. The creatures who inhabited it grew to understand how to care for the world and to see the balance in everything. The whole was infinitely greater than the sum of its parts.

‘I realised early on that building a world around individual success and wellbeing was a dangerous thing. It’s a small step from there to valuing self-preservation over all else and once you head down that path, you’re history,’ Leon observed.

‘This was all going well until I went away for a while. Other worlds, other commitments. While I was away into that space I’d left behind came the Alabaster Empress. She was a wily one, too. She saw how everything was designed to care for each other. How each piece fitted the puzzle, but this was not to her liking. She needed each piece to be different for her to take control. It took her many, many years, but slowly she separated the races out. Made some feel like they were more important than others. Told them that they didn’t have a guardianship role. They were owners of the world and could do with it whatever they wished.

‘The message was as seductive just as it was false. People fell for it, placing themselves above other creatures, and even above each other. Those that rose to the top had learned from the Empress. They convinced the very people they were taking control of that it was for the people’s own good. Eventually the whole world had fallen under the freezing mantle of the Empress.’

‘Why don’t you just front up to the Empress and put her in her place?’ asked the Gong. ‘Seems to me you could manage that pretty easily.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. The witch has grown powerful through a common belief in her crooked philosophy. I cannot risk such a failure, but, just as importantly, I cannot risk such a success either. That would reaffirm individual power. It can only work if everyone brings down the Empress .... and that’s where the wheels fall off.’

The lion, for all his physical prowess and radiant power, sunk into a despondent silence.

‘We’ve been talking it through,’ said the Teacher, after a respectful pause, ‘and we’ve hit something of an impasse. Any suggestions would be deeply appreciated.’

There’s nothing like the request to help save a world to add pressure to a conversation, thought Verence, and then he thought some more. That’s the wonderful thing about thinking; it’s only limited by the expectations of the thinker. You’d reckon that, given all the thinking sentient species have done over the millennia, this would have been a well-established truth. Given the fact that it isn’t says a fair bit about the creative quality of human thought, which is always the first victim of traditional quantity thinking. The Empress was an elf, of some stripe, and Verence had played his part in dealing with an elf invasion before. Demonstrating an equally rare trait in leadership he reflected on this to see what lessons could be learned from past experience.

Leon was right about it needing to be a people’s revolution, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have a rallying point. The trick was to make sure the rallying point wasn’t the solution in itself. He thought back to when the elves had invaded Lancre. The power of elves lay in their ability to create glamour. To appear incredibly beautiful. Awesome in the truest sense of the word. They redefined the human world around then, with elves at the top and everything else very much at the bottom. In this new elf-centred paradigm humans simply had no worth and once this thinking took hold it was a short and satisfying step to compliance. Elves were playful, in the same way cats were with mice.

None of this sounded all that different to the Empress. Being alone in Nornia might have been seen as a disadvantage for her but as elves despise each other almost as much as other races despise them it was likely that the Empress was more than happy with the situation. All she’d needed to do was to seduce enough minds to give her an army, just in case she met resistance, and she was set.

Back at Lancre the elves had almost succeeded. The turning point had been when Magrat had found the battle armour of Queen Ynci. The fact that Queen Ynci didn’t actually exist hadn’t proved a problem and Magrat had become a rallying point. Sure, there were other factors at play, but the Queen Ynci reincarnated role had been central.

‘Ummm,’ said Verence. Ummm cops a bad rap in debates and yet it is the most popular opening gambit in any discussion, especially ones featuring very large felines with supernatural auras. The umm worked, at least in capturing the attention. This is its primary goal. What was needed now was some form of cogent observation, which was where most people came unstuck. Verence drew a deep breath and ploughed on.

‘How about if we gave them some sort of homegrown hero to bring the people together? I know you’ll still have deal with the issue of individual power, but at least it’s one that belongs to the people. Do you have any famous historical figures? Nornians that everyone respected.’

Leon frowned in thought. ‘There was Eric the Dead,’ he said after a while. ‘He fought the great black dragon to save his people.’

‘And he was triumphant? Perhaps you have his armour somewhere?’

‘Not exactly,’ replied Leon. ‘His name gives you a fair idea of how that turned out. And as for his armour ... I think some smith salvaged it to make pots and pans. I had to sort that one out in the end.’

‘Probably not what we need right now. Second candidate.’

Leon thought some more. ‘Red Sonya? She faced the balrog of Boria single-handed.’

‘Before we go any further with that option,’ said Verence carefully, ‘is red a good colour for her to be in this story and how did the single-handed thing go?’

‘Not so well,’ admitted the lion. ‘Think she ended up no-handed pretty quickly and as for the colour red ...’

‘Perhaps we could start from scratch,’ suggested the Teacher quickly. ‘Make our own heroes. Have you got any myths we could work with?’

‘Well,’ Leon said, sheepishly, which is no mean feat for a lion, ‘there was this hiccup I had a while ago. I’d set up this garden and decided it needed some gardeners. I created a couple, Aaron and Neave, but there were some ... technical difficulties ... so I wound the project up. The curious thing is that somehow word got out and the next thing I knew there was this prophesy drifting around. That the world would be saved by the daughters of Neave and the sons of Aaron. I don’t suppose that would work?’

Verence nodded. Prophecies were the bane of every ruler’s life. No one knew where they came from and they were always slippery things that could be twisted, in the right hands, to mean anything. Once they took hold they were like weeds and the more you tried to root them out the faster they spread. A well-aimed prophesy was as lethal and sharp as the magical sword they often featured. A sword in a stone is just a rather annoying place to store a good blade unless there’s a prophesy to go with it.

‘I think that might just work,’ said Verence. ‘Do you have any idea where you could find these sons and daughters?’

‘Sure,’ replied Leon. ‘They’re in another realm. Haven’t been there for a while though. I think things have moved on a fair bit. Still,’ the lion brightened, ‘surely I can find someone to help out. They must have some great warrior to lead the revolution.’

‘Just like you had here?’ the Teacher observed. ‘Be realistic and work with what you can find. Besides, wouldn’t it be even better to make them seem somehow fairly ordinary? Now, I think we’ve all earned a good cup of tea. Lucky I’ve bought a good supply of leaves with me. Leon’s become quite partial to it, haven’t you?’

The lion nodded. As one of the stranger tea parties to grace Nornia unfolded Verence took Leon aside. ‘Your ... Lionship,’ he said, ‘just a tip. Finding someone to lead the uprising is one thing, but they’ll need their own form of glamour. Have you got any magical items you could give them? Razzamatazz to capture the hearts and souls?’

Leon pondered this. ‘I’ve got a trunk of stuff I’ve picked up along the way. It’s amazing what you can find leftover from other stories. Probably got something that would work. Swords, bows, that sort of thing?’

‘Perfect,’ replied the king. ‘Maybe throw in a magical elixir or two as well. They never hurt.’

‘Done,’ replied Leon.

Who really knows where a story begins and ends. There is one school of thought that it begins with the author and end with the writing of the last word. Then there is the other argument. The one that asks what gave the writer the idea in the first place and what happened to the reader after they’d finished the last word? If you take this thinking far enough you begin to wonder whether any story begins or ends and exactly how many stories there really are. This is known as the Big Ripple Theory.

The Lion, the King, the Gong and the Teacher talked long into the night.


	12. Witch craft

The streets of Weizhi were an unfolding wonder to Nanny. Never in all her travels had she seen, heard or smelt so much chaos. Everywhere someone was selling something - and it didn’t always pay to look too closely at what it was they were offering. Especially the food stores.

The market sellers were people of all ages; the only thing they had in common was an energy that seemed to have less to do with commercial advantage and more to do with general survival. The other curious feature was that no matter what the price tag there was always room for further discount if it looked like a prospective customer might escape your clutches. Nanny was torn by this. She loved a good haggle and she wouldn’t be a witch if she couldn’t drive a hard bargain but it didn’t feel as satisfying when you knew that the few cents you saved were keeping food out of some family’s mouths. It’s one thing to challenge unscrupulous pricing, it’s another thing entirely to take advantage of the vulnerable. In the end the price you pay for a handful of coppers may amount to the moral equivalent of many pieces of silver.

Today, though, that wasn’t Nanny’s real problem. She was looking for the right kind of sellers. She knew they’d be there. Every society had them, they just called them by different names. Eventually, in a suitably mysterious side street, eerily quiet in the chaos, she found them. A string of stalls which were conspicuous by the limited amount of wares on display. Equally strange was the lack of spruiking. The sellers of these wares didn’t have to advertise. Quite the reverse. These stalls told you all about themselves by not saying a word. The clientele were no less curious. You got the feeling that the small number of potential customers could be more accurately described as procurers rather than buyers. Nanny was in her element, but that didn’t make it any the less dangerous. One foot wrong and everything could go belly-up.

She assessed all the stalls. Whilst there was a certain uniformity to them, there would still be a pecking order and she needed to find where the peck began. There it was. The third stall in. The one with the finest disposition, catching the best of the light in the alleyway along with a gentle cross breeze from a side street. That’s the spot she’d have chosen too. As she walked past the other purveyors she could see in the cloistered dimness strange wares hanging from the ceiling or resting on tables. Things that could have been parts of once-living creatures, dried to shrivelled desiccation. Or possibly plants that were all the rarer for their place in this apothecarial environment. Things in jars that it may have been safer to keep sealed there forever. And somewhere at the back of the stall, a pair of eyes watching her as she passed, weighing her up on some metaphysical scale whose measurements obeyed the laws of the measurer, not the laws of the world.

Nanny reached the front of the stall and peered in. There would be rules of engagement. Form to be followed ... but Nanny knew all about form and rules.

‘Wotcha,’ she called into the interior. ‘Hello the house. Anyone at home?’

Nanny listened to the silence. You could learn a lot from what you couldn’t hear. There was the silence of anger at such inappropriate behaviour...followed by a pause. It was a good pause and Nanny knew she’d come to the right place. Here was someone who had power and had chosen not to use it. That was A-grade leadership material right there. Finally, there was the thinking silence. The one where the thinker is trying to figure out whether the subject is really that simple, or complex masquerading as simple. How many layers to the onion? Nanny knew the answer to that. One layer - Nanny Ogg all the way down. The secret wasn’t in the layers it was in knowing that humans aren’t onions.

Nanny waited and it was the nature of that waiting that told the observer everything they needed to know.

A figure emerged from the well-constructed gloom of the stall. She was the perfect height (ie the same as Nanny) and the perfect age (ie the same as Nanny). But when it came to the girth dimension* they were in different leagues. Nanny had heard the phrase ‘a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips’, and subscribed to it fully. She’d had uncountably many moments on the lips, plenty involving food, plenty not. As for spending a lifetime on the hips - well you had to give her full marks for trying. Not all regimes require gyms when you make your own gymnastics. Her body reflected a mind that was even broader - and had given her thighs that could crack coconuts.

* Like the third dimension but with fries on the side

The stall holder’s shape wasn’t anything but, it was everything but. Leanness that would make a rake check its waistline. Not skinny, just a total absence of fat. It suggested a life of austerity, but Nanny knew all about suggestions. Nanny indulged indulgences, the owner indulged restraint. The important thing to realise was that both involved choices and that the power lay with the chooser.

The stall holder bowed. It was a bow Nanny recognised because she’d used it herself regularly. It was the sort of bow that offered respect but made it absolutely clear that it was a bow amongst equals. Nanny was about to give one in return but, with a twinkle in her eye, she changed it to a curtesy.

The stall holder smiled. It was a tight, dry use of facial muscles that acknowledged a gambit when she saw one and was willing to see how this all panned out. You can read a lot in body language but it’s the eyes you have to watch most closely of all. Nanny could wield a twinkle as well as any dwarf could wield an axe.

‘Are you browsing or looking for something in particular?’ the owner asked.

‘Both,’ replied Nanny promptly. She was all in favouring of testing people on the one simple proviso that it was her doing the testing. ‘It all depends on what you’ve got to offer. You’ve got a damn fine collection of bits and pieces. Very mystic, I do say. Must work a treat in getting your message across to your average buyer. The thing is, I’m not average and what I’m lookin’ for can’t be hung on any hook. Nanny Ogg’s the name, by the way.’

Nanny didn’t have eyes in the back of her head, and the eyes she didn’t have told her that the other stall holders had quietly emerged and were watching every nuance. It was a dance and they were waiting to see who was taking the lead.

The art of real power lay in understanding that the leader in the dance is always the musician. Great musicians, though, know how to accommodate a new player in the band without losing control of the melody. The store holder smiled. ‘Zunjing Tianqi at your service,’ she replied. Then she curtsied, with a twinkle.

Nanny was impressed.

*****

The Council Of War convened. Around a table in the most remote location of the library sat Lu Tze, Magrat, Zhanshi, Lei Ching, Rob Anybody and Rincewind. Lu Tze led the conversation, not on the strength of age, old can just make stupid people more skilled at stupid, but on the grounds of wisdom and experience. Near-eternal monks have a natural advantage in those areas.

‘Have you ever heard of General Tacticus?’ he said.

‘The greatest military leader in the history of the Disc,’ said Lei Ching, saving the others from demonstrable ignorance. It’s always handy to have a researcher on your team.

‘That’s him. Wonderful tactical mind, though too conventional in his early days,’ the monk added.

‘That’s true,’ continued Lei Ching. ‘I read one account that said he was a small time soldier with a modest command, showing not a lot of promise and then he had this encounter with a wandering traveller and everything changed. He started coming up with strategies that led to victory after victory.’

‘So I have heard.’

‘Hang on,’ said Magrat. ‘A wandering traveller? Let me guess. Was it a monk?’

Lei Ching frowned. ‘I read the treatise some time ago, but now that I think about it the more that sounds right.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Magrat sharply, turning to Lu Tze. ‘It was you wasn’t it?’

‘It is possible I was wandering in that general area at the time,’ the monk replied.

‘Don’t give me that possible excuse,’ Magrat continued. ‘You spoke to Tacticus, changed his way of thinking ... and that changed the world. I thought history monks weren’t supposed to do that sort of thing.’

‘And yet, here I am again,’ smiled the monk.

‘Is that still all part of the Temporal Ballsup you told us about?’ asked Zhanshi.

‘That would be a yes ... and a no.’

‘That’s not very helpful,’ the young man retorted.

‘It is, when Ying and Yang are involved,’ the monk continued, ‘though I admit these philosophies that have an each way bet can be mildly frustrating...but then so if life ... and sentient thought, for that matter. Yes, it is possible that the TB was in play. It’s the nature of TB to be hard to know for sure. Then there’s the no, which is really an alternative scenario. You see, much as we like to think we exist outside time, even the famous Blind Freddie can see that’s not entirely possible when we also exist on the Disc. This is a Paradox, and we have a few of those to deal with when time is involved. Much as we might try, each monk is caught up in his own history, and who is to say that talking to Tacticus wasn’t part of that?’

‘But then doesn’t that throw everything out the window? Why have any rules at all about interfering?’ said Lei Ching.

‘Fair point,’ Lu Tze conceded. ‘That’s why it’s a paradox ... and it’s more of a guideline than a rule. What it means is that history monks can’t really manage their own timelines, so we keep an eye on each other. Make sure that we stay on our own track. The fact that I was allowed to speak to Tacticus tells me I was always going to speak to him.’

‘Sounds circuitous logic to me,’ said Magrat.

‘Maybe, but have you ever thought about faith and belief? Pretty circuitous stuff that, and yet we have priests and gods.’

‘Ach, I’m over this schemie thinkin’,’ said Rob. ‘What difference does it make? The auld bigjob is here helpin’ us. Just listen to wha’ he has tae say, ye ken.’

Sometimes you need Feegle thinking to get things done. The others fell quiet as Lu Tze smiled and continued.

‘Thank you Rob for your incisive input.’

‘Ach, no problemo, monky boy,’ Rob replied with a proud grin. ‘Can insize wi’ the best of them. We Feegles is famous for our thinkin’.’

Which was true, though rarely could the word constructive be part of that observation. When it came to destructive thinking, however, they were past masters.

‘So what would General Tacticus, the Lu Tze version, have done?’ asked Magrat.

‘You know, I only gave him a few pointers,’ replied the monk in a defensive tone. ‘He really was a military genius. He’d have said that when one side has significantly inferior numbers, endeavour not to be that side.’

‘Seriously? Is that all he’s got,’ said Rincewind, who’d been quiet the whole time, hoping they’d forget about him so he could slip out the back door when no one was watching. But even this tactic had to cede ground to cynical outrage.

‘Ah, but again we fall in the trap of not listening to the whole story,’ the monk continued patiently. ‘Tacticus understood the importance of military strength. The secret was to work with what you have and to improve the odds. We, alone, will not be enough. We must recognise that. This means we need Mrs Ogg’s efforts to be successful and for her to strike when we need her.’

‘So it’s another waiting game, is it?’ growled Zhanshi in frustration.

‘Impatience. The first and certain step to defeat. Have you forgotten about the yes/no paradigm already?’

‘Ach, no,’ said Rob, who was still riding high on his incisiveness. ‘.... well, maybbe yes ... bit hazy on them paradime thinggies. Type o’ wee birdie isn’t it?’

‘My but that’s metaphysical thinking, there Rob. No ordinary mind could have made that leap to an avian analogy,’ observed Lu Tze.

‘Ach, it’s a skill I have,’ replied the pictsie, his grin even broader. Perhaps he’d had hidden depths to his thinkin’ after all. Who knew what lay down there in the darkness? Other than the kraken, of course.

‘The Feegle has provided us with an excellent example of yes/no. To put it in context, yes we have to wait, but no we don’t have to “do nothing”. As General Tacticus observed, when numbers are not in your favour change the game. This is the perfect time for guerrilla warfare.’

The statement met with the sort of silence that tends to follow etymological confusion.

‘You mean, we use big apes?’ asked Lei Ching. It’s unreasonable to expect Librarian’s to know everything. ‘Like Hooligan use elephants to attack Ahroma?’ she added, making a noble, if flawed, recovery.

‘Well, we have got the Librarian,’ added Magrat helpfully.

‘Aye, havin’ wee big monkee thingies on oor side cannae hurt, at least no to us,’ agreed Rob.

Lu Tze smiled. ‘That’s quite true, an army of big apes would be useful, but for now let me explain a bit more about guerrilla warfare.’

Once Lu Tze had filled in their knowledge gap they all agreed it made plenty of sense, except for the stupid name.

Rob had the added joy of a Feegle mind, which meant that, along with looking forward to a series of running battles, he was over the moon at the prospect of seeing an army of wee big monkeys.


	13. Boffo

The journey back to the wardrobe now included the Teacher. He’d explained how he’d left the cave the Gong had found for him to go out and explore. After all he was a teacher and all teachers need to be learning all the time. This is the difference between being a teacher and someone who wants to tell you what to think. It’s a surprisingly rare ability. There are a lot less teachers in the world than there are people in teaching positions*. Along the way he’d got ‘a bit lost’ and it was Leon who rescued him before the Alabaster Empress found him.

* Teachers are not alone in this. There are administrators who have confused administrating (being a servant of the people) with operational administration, doctors who no longer realise their name originally meant teacher and police and politicians who forget their titles derive from citizenship and not law enforcement or .... whatever politicians do. And so on. It’s easy to forget these things, especially if it’s problematic to remember them.

‘Chances are only a few minutes will have passed by the time we return,’ the Gong said as they arrived, by an intentionally indirect route, at the secret tree. He lent casually on the knot, the door duly reappearing, giving the strongest impression of having been there all along, which it may well have been. This sort of thinking can drive you crazy but, as the Teacher had once observed, how do you know crazy isn’t just reality from the wrong perspective?

‘I’ll go through first,’ said the Gong, ‘to make sure the coast is clear. Once I’ve sorted that out I’ll come back and get you.’

He opened the door and went through. The Teacher and Verence waited...and waited...and waited.

‘I don’t think the coast was clear, do you?’ said Verence. The Teacher shook his head. ‘I guess we’d better find out for ourselves,’ Verence continued surveying the winter landscape, which offered scant alternatives, none of them pretty, not even on a postcard.

The two travellers went cautiously through the door, Verence first because, though he wasn’t classical hero material the Teacher was so far at the other extreme that everything became relative. The Teacher pulled the door behind him. The latch almost clicked into place. After they had passed through the door swung slowly open, waiting.

****

This is what happened to the Gong.

He had barely exited the wardrobe when there was a loud knock on the door, which seemed entirely pointless, since it was immediately flung open, revealing Jahat, with a support cast of castle guards.

‘It is my sad duty, Your Lordship,’ Jahat said, with a smile that suggested sadness was the last thing in his mind, ‘to inform you that you have been accused of acting with Disloyalty, and that treason may also be involved. This puts me in the unfortunate position of having to place you under arrest, until such time as a suitable punishment can be determined.’

‘Disloyalty?’ gasped the Gong. ‘What idiotic game is this Jahat? What Disloyalty? Where is your proof? Stop this immediately and leave my quarters before I dream up a suitable punishment of my own.’

‘Ah, master. Would it were that simple. Witnesses have come forward and the proof seems incontrovertible. A public court will be established, of course, where you can protest your innocence, and then a suitable punishment will be decreed. Follow me quietly. It is much more dignified for one of your current standing to walk rather than be dragged.’

The Gong’s shoulders sank. He’d seen this game play out before and he knew exactly who held all the cards. He looked at Jahat, whose eyes glittered with impending triumph and slowly he straightened up. Damned if he was going to be giving Jahat the satisfaction of seeing him defeated. Besides, these were ... interesting times.

‘I give you permission to escort me from my room,’ the Gong said. ‘How have you gone with recapturing the prisoners, by the way? Ah. I can see by the look on your face, not so well. Once we get this farce over with I think you may need a ‘thorough examination’ of your performance, Jahat. Still, to be fair, it’s hard for someone of your limited talents when you’re up against witches.’

_Witches._

The word hung on the air like an echo that wasn’t. Heard by every single one of the guards. The whisper that had begun recently quietly upgraded to a rumour. It was still a long way from a wildfire, but every breathing of the word was a fanning of the flickering flame.

****

Nanny had been instructed, though the instruction had been wrapped up to look like it was an invitation she could decline if she so wished, to return at the end of the day. Business was, after all, business. She’d enjoyed the opportunity to wander the streets immensely. You’d have thought language would be a barrier but there was a Lingua Franca that applied to all business dealings.

The hustle and bustle reminded her of a trip made some years ago to Genua. Now that was a hoot. It was where she’d first met, Casanunda, the dwarfish Valentino. He’d taken a shine to Nanny or, rather, to the sheer intensity with which Nanny embraced life. And then there was the whole fairy godmother thing, the masked ball, Baron Saturday, Mrs Gogol.... that was when she, Granny and Magrat were a team. Nanny sighed.

‘Wonderful times, Esme, wonderful times,’ she whispered. ‘I miss you so much, you old besom. Why did ya have to go and die before the world had finished with ya?

‘Damnit, Esme. More to the point, why did ya have to go and die afore I’d finished with ya?’

Nanny paused as the streams of humanity flowed around her, filling all the breathing space with the raucous reality of life on the edge. There was nothing strange, in this place, about someone talking to themselves. It was about the only way to hear your thoughts.

‘I’m back in the game, too, Esme,’ Nanny continued. ‘No, not that game. The other one. Tryin’ to make the world a better place. I need more than I’ve got, though. So, here I am about to meet with some witches. Oh, sure they may not be the traditional Lancre witches, but they’re woman o’ power, who know their own minds and they’re mystical. People are afraid of ‘em too, which makes ‘em witches in my book.

‘Soon I’ll be a guest at their coven* and you know what that means. There’ll be a testin’. And you waz the best there ever waz at tests. Yer whole life waz a test. What I wouldn’t give to have yer here right now.’

* Coven is just another word for meeting. It’s all about branding. And when witches are involved meeting is usually just another word for argument.

For a moment the world was silent. A curious thing in all that clamour.

****

Nanny returned at sunset as the stalls were being packed up.

‘Follow me,’ said Zunjing. ‘We have a room we meet in.’

Nanny nodded. ‘Just want to make sure I don’t put my foot in it,’ she replied, safe in the knowledge that sometimes you do have to put a foot in and she had the perfect hob-nailed boots to do so. ‘What sorta title should I use to address you?’

‘It is Nanny Ogg, isn’t it?’ Zunjing replied. ‘You do know that a Nan in our society, is a form of lord, don’t you?’

‘Yep. I was chuffed about it when I heard. Gives the name more power. In our lingo, Nanny means Grandmother,’ said Nanny, ‘which is also pretty powerful when you think about it.’

‘Here to, I am called the Grandmother. You may call me as such.’

‘Has a nice ring to it,’ said Nanny. ‘Think I’ll go with Grandma Z, if that’s OK with you. By the way you’re speaking pretty impressive Ankh-Morporkian.’

Grandma Z smiled. ‘No, Nanny, you’re speaking fine Bhangbhangducian. It’s always easier to adapt the one, rather than the many.’

‘Cor,’ said Nanny. ‘How did ya do that?’

‘There is a magic in any marketplace, which I’m sure you’ve noticed. The power of commerce broached all linguistic barriers. We,’ here she waved her hand towards the other stall holders on the street, ‘have taken that and refined it. As long as you are in our company, our sphere of influence, we will converse with all the ease of being back at home.’

‘Damn good magic, Grandma Z. You got a trick for when I’m not near ya?’

Grandma’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘but it’s not very comfortable. Bhangbhangducian scholars have found that there is an energy that comes from making friendships. It is known as the Seek Magnetic Force. There is a tiny imp that we believe thrives on that energy and has evolved curious powers. We call it the Babble imp. It helps friendships form by translating spoken words into the language of those around it.

‘The problem is that you have to insert the imp into your ear, and most people can’t handle it. It’s why the imps aren’t that common.’

Grandma Z reaches into her pocket and drew out a small box. She opened it carefully to reveal a tiny being, asleep on some wool. ‘I would suggest you only use this in times of need. Trust me, it is not easy to tolerate and the imp only needs to feed occasionally on the Seek Magnetic Force.’

She gave Nanny the box and Nanny placed it in the voluminous depths of her pocket. A pocket to a witch is like a utility belt to other more melodramatic superheroes.

Nanny watched as the final stall was packed up and then followed Grandma Z as she led the group through the winding streets to a bar that, despite the imposing press of humanity, was near to empty. All cities have one or two of these bars. They cater for those that march to different drummers. You’d think this might make it hard to earn a living from, but the nature of the bar meant it was open even during those hours when gods-fearing people were abed, possibly fearing the very clientele at the bar. Besides, different drummers tend to have a generous evaluation system when it comes to assessing how much drink is enough. This is definitely good for business.

Grandma ordered a round of green tea, which was promptly delivered, along with a large, strangely shaped bottle. Inside its glassy green depths you would swear something was moving. Nanny smiled. The trick was not to figure out when the testing began, it was to realise it never ended.

She grabbed an empty glass and pulled out the stopper of the bottle. It gave a satisfying promissory hiss. She poured the light blue light blue liquid into the glass, where it swirled in a manner not unlike a midnight fog. A gentle vapour arose. Musty with age.

‘Right,’ said Nanny, ‘down the hatch.’

And then she paused, looked thoughtful and passed the glass to Grandma Z. ‘Where are my manners? Never pour for yourself, hey?’

‘Anyone else want one?’ she asked, turning to the assembled group.

No words were spoken because the eyes were doing all the talking. Nanny followed the rapid exchange of glances with amusement and then said, ‘I reckon we might try the other bottle. The one the barman keeps under the counter. What do you reckon?

As tension turned to realisation Nanny leaned forward and the others, as if drawn by some magic string, leaned in with her. ‘I’m not some mug tourist,’ she whispered. ‘I’m the real deal. So let’s get down to business.’

Something shifted in the air. Grandma was the first to lean back, the others quickly following suit. The relief was palpable.

‘Barman,’ she called, ‘bring us your finest spirit...the one without a spirit,’ she added with a tight smile.

‘Now, what is it you want from us?’ Grandma said turning back to Nanny.

Nanny looked around the group again. She’d past the first test, but that was the easy one. ‘Right, so I’m guessin’ you’ve figured out I’m one of you. We call ourselves witches back home. Pretty sure you’d all fit right in with that ... but there’s a problem with that, isn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ replied one of the other stall holders, who had been introduced to Nanny as Hwei-ru. ‘To be called a witch in our society is not a good thing. Witches are magical. Witches have supernatural powers. Witches will steal your soul.’

Nanny thought for a moment. ‘Yep, sounds reasonable, apart from the stealing soul thing, o’course. Not that we couldn’t do that ... dearie me, Black Aliss would have done it in the blink of an eye ... but really we shouldn’t steal souls ... probably.

‘Sounds more like a big case of jealousy to me. Witches have all these powers so they’re evil ... because they’ve got them and I haven’t.’

‘Nevertheless, it is a label we have to avoid,’ replied Hwei-ru. ‘Better to be thought of as wise old women who are a bit mysterious. Knowledgeable.’

‘I’ve never taken a shine to nevertheless as a word,’ said Nanny. ‘It’s like throwin’ out an anchor to creative thinkin’. See, what you’re tellin’ me is that the word ‘witch’ has power. Maybe it’s considered dark, but that’s only part of the perception. You can work on that. All I’m sayin’ is don’t turn your back on it. It’s somethin’ to use when the time is right. For now, I’m happy enough to be called a mysterious, wise, old woman. Not that you’re all old, by the way. I can tell Boffo when I sees it.’

‘Boffo?’

‘Lookin’ like somethin’ you ain’t because it’s somethin’ you is, but the rest of the world can’t see it ‘cause it has its own stupid ideas. Like needin’ to be old to be one of your group. You can be wise in the mysteries o’ the world without havin’ to be old. Plenty o’ stupid old people, plenty o’ wise younger people. Sure, gettin’ old gives you time to get better, but you needed to have the right mind there in the first place. You,’ she said, pointing at one of the women, ‘what’s your name?’

‘Jilpa,’ the woman replied, cautiously.

‘And that means?....’

‘Teacher of Life.’

‘Right. And what name did your parents give you?’ Nanny asked with a lethal smile; locking eyes with the woman in a way that said just because arms aren’t involved doesn’t mean this isn’t an arm wrestle. Nanny was damn good at it. Nanny’s eyes might as well have been built from tree trunks and sporting tattoos of anchors and various attempts at the word mother. The subject of the gaze struggled for a few moments and then buckled. ‘Kaihua,’ she said quietly.

‘Meaning ....’

‘Blossom,’ she said, bowing her head in embarrassment.

‘Boffo,’ said Nanny, ‘and you can stop that embarrassment right now. Nothin’ to be ashamed of in the name your parents gave ya. They must a loved you something fierce.’

Blossom nodded. ‘They did,’ she said.

‘Right. Don’t you forget it. Or your name. By changin’ it you’ve let the world tell you how to be. That’s not very witc... mysterious, wise-womanly is it? Damn that’s a mouthful. Need to work on a better name. Nice resistance there, by the way Blossom. If you hadn’t doubted yerself it could have been a long afternoon.’

Nanny then turned and pointed to another lady. ‘You.’

‘Xinai,’ the woman said.

‘Nice challengin’ tone there,’ said Nanny. ‘Pretty sure the old whatsyername trick ain’t gunna work this time. What’s it mean?’

‘My full name is Beloved Pearl, and I am proud of it.’

‘Well played Beloved Pearl, if that was the game we were playin’ but it ain’t.’

She leant forward and peered so closely at Beloved Pearl that the other woman found herself recoiling, but not before Nanny said, ‘Very good wrinkles there. Musta taken ages to paint on. Can’t hardly tell them from the real thing. Don’t use make-up meself,’ Nanny continued. ‘Always found my adventurous personality was all I needed to be allurin’.’

There are certain people who have an ability to create trepidation in anyone drawn into their circle of influence, which in Nanny’s case was more like a whirlpool than a circle. The what-have-I-got-myself-into moment. The coven, to a woman, was right in that moment. Nanny knew it, and thrived on it. Nanny could have been at home on the stage but she didn’t need to be. She took her stage with her, wherever she went.

‘But I do have daughters-in-law, on account o’ me allure, and I seen them put on make-up. The funny thing is they do it to hide the wrinkles, to look younger. You look good and old if I leans back Beloved Pearl .... but how old are you, if I don’t?’

She’d been ready to defend her name, which was original and meant bright jade, but now Beloved Pearl learned an important lesson which, coincidentally, was one of the key pieces of advice offered by General Tacticus, never assume you know the enemy better than they know themselves. Or, as Nanny would put it, assume makes an ass out of you and me. And then she’d laugh. Sometimes people took the laugh personally, which meant they’d totally missed the point. Nanny laughed because she thought the word ass was funny. Nanny knew this laughter confused some people and that made her laugh all the more. She had a built-in laughter feedback system.

‘Thirty eight,’ whispered Beloved Pearl.

‘Boffo,’ cried Nanny.

She leant back in her chair and smiled. ‘The weakness of most witches is that we can’t see our own weaknesses. It’s just not part of the way we create ourselves. Oh, the really good ones know it and the great ones learn how to use their weaknesses, but even then they can’t show it. That’s the biggest Boffo of all.

‘This whole witches are evil is Boffo, but it’s not your Boffo. It’s everyone else’s. Now, I’m not sayin’ it ain’t dangerous ... it’ll bite yer on the bum as soon as you look the other way* ... but remember, it’s a two-way street. When the time comes, ride the dragon.’

* Or, as General Tacticus put it, more formally but no more accurately, always remember the importance of a rear guard and that there are three hundred and sixty degrees in a circle.

Grandma Z nodded and then she spoke. ‘A very fine display, Nanny Ogg,’ she said. ‘The sort of display you might say was designed to win over a sceptical audience and take control of the agenda. A display that one might be very tempted to describe as a perfect example of Boffo,’ she continued.

Oh, she was good, thought Nanny. Better’n I’d thought, even.

‘But we are not your average sort of mind, are we Nanny Ogg? You wouldn’t be here if we were, would you? You have shown that you understand and share our occupation, granted, but that just gets our attention. For all this ... performance... the truth is you need our help. Convince us that we should give it.’

Up until this point Grandma Z had been addressing the other ladies. Now her eyes swung back to Nanny and threw down a challenge. To her surprise Nanny found herself caught in an eyelock, but not of her own making.

It comes as quite a shock when you realise that, especially when you’ve always thought of it as your expert subject, you’ve just been out-Boffoed. Grandma’s eyes narrowed down to pin-sized pupils which only seemed to give them even greater pulling power. There is more than one kind of black hole and Nanny found herself being dragged in. Grandma Z wasn’t just better’n Nanny thought, she was shaping up to be better’n Nanny herself.

‘Oh, Esme,’ she said, in lieu of swearing.

*****

‘It is done,’ said Jahat. ‘The witnesses have been arrange, the accusation has been made publicly and the Gong is under arrest.’

‘Then it is not done, is it?’ said the Godsfather. ‘Perhaps you are unaware done has quite a specific meaning. It applies only once something is complete. For example, was the execution of the Gong not part of the plan? Has this occurred yet? And your appointment in the role? And what of the foreign king? And the tidying up that comes after?’

Jahat glared at the the Godsfather. It was the sort of glare that can only be seen in the smallest narrowing of the pupils. The sort that the glaree is not supposed to see because the glarer wants to keep their cards close to their chest and doesn’t want the glaree to know that there will be retribution and it will not be fast. Oh no, it will be very slow and satisfying. The Godsfather, who had got to his position and stayed there by watching people closely, saw. Retribution takes two. The trick is to be at the handle-end, not the knife point.

‘As you know,’ said Jahat in a tight, clipped tone that could almost be mistaken for formality, ‘an accusation at this high a level, even one that is proved beyond all reasonable bribery, must follow due process. I had sent word to the Emperor … People’s Committee .. as it appropriate. It is their right to have someone in attendance. Word has been received today that a representative is on the way. I am certain things will still go to plan. The outcome is a foregone conclusion. As will be my appointment. It might as well be done.

‘As for the foreign king, clearly your network has informed you that he has gone missing. This is unfortunate, but of no great consequence. He is now well and truly on his own in a foreign country. He may already be dead, for all we know.’

Perhaps it wasn’t the most convincing defence he’d made, but he was damned if he was going to let the Godsfather spoil his good mood. He left the comment on tidying up alone. He knew it was both a taunt and a threat. Jahat refused to take it. Let the leader of the Biads think he would rule the country. Uncertainty was dangerous, but certainty could leave you just as vulnerable*, Jahat thought, with certainty.

* Or, according to General Tacticus, ‘certainty is a double edged weapon. The wise leader stays away from both blades and focusses on the handle’**.

** Or, as Nanny would say, being somewhat of an expert on these matters ‘when you grab something with both hands, make sure you know what you’re grabbing.’

****

Every society has members who march to different drummers. Society has an excellent track record of not handling such marchers, or drummers, particularly well. It tends to ostracise rather than listen. Or, worse, lock the marchers and drummers up. Just because everyone is marching to the same tune doesn’t mean it’s the best tune to march to.

Laughing Tiger lived on the streets and made good as well as he could. His only crime had been to believe that if all humans worked together they could solve the world’s problems in a heartbeat. Such radical thinking had made him an outcast and, along traditional lines, the lack of action by other had driven him mad. Madness in the eye of the beholder. And so it sanity.

Which is why he didn’t tell anybody what he saw that night in the alleyway. It wouldn’t have done him any favours on the credibility front, even though what he saw was what had unfolded. Reality also, it seems, is in the eye of the beholder or, in this case, the mind of the unbeholder.

There was a shimmering in the air, bright in the semi-darkness of the alleyway. This was followed by a loud pop and suddenly the alleyway was more crowded than it had been heartbeats earlier. Standing in the half-light from the street Laughing Tiger saw a strange block-like object sitting where there had previously been empty pavement. To his amazement the box stood up, shook itself and spun around. Laughing Tiger could have sworn it was sniffing, looking for a trail. The box appeared to make up its mind, spun towards Laughing Tiger and charged towards him. Primitive survival mechanisms cut in and the man just managed to throw himself out of the way in time. There are many ways to leave this world. Being trampled to death is an option, but generally one of the unpopular ones. Being trampled to death by a suitcase is just downright embarrassing.

The whole scene could be called an allegory for birth, but what rough beast had just slouched … well … stampeded …. towards Weizhi to be born?

Laughing Tiger was comforted by the thought that whilst this maybe a problem the important thing was, the really important thing was, that it was no longer his problem.


	14. Unexpected company

When it comes to battlefields the most regularly visited one sits neatly between the left and right ears. Once the Creator decided, against all better judgement, that sentience was a good thing the likelihood of the mind grappling with itself became, as it were, a no-brainer.

Whilst this, on the surface, may seem a bad thing, it’s quite healthy, in moderation. A bit of mental grappling on a regular basis is the intellectual equivalent of its physical counterpart. Think about it. Don’t we talk about strong minds, agile thinking or someone having a firm mindset? A bit of uncertainty is actually a good thing, the problem arises if the uncertainty is large enough to feed back on itself.

This is where witches get it totally wrong. They think that the secret is to be 100% certain. The problem with that approach is that it has to work 100% of the time. There is no second line of defence because you simply aren’t prepared for your only defence to fail. Success, as they* say, is a dangerous teacher. Resilience is better and you can only achieve that by learning from failure. When an unprepared witch encounters failure the outcome is always going to be a locomotive wreck.

* The philosophers of Ephebe once undertook extensive research into who these they were they kept hearing about. The findings were debatable, which is the standard outcome in any philosophical discussion. Definite logical outcomes are bad for business when you’re in the thinking and doubt game. The upshot was that most agreed that they was some form of social perception that may be based on reality ... which then opened up a whole new fruitful line of debate on what reality was. That’s philosophers for you.

Nanny was currently in the lead carriage of that locomotive. She’d come here confident of swaying the local witches to her way of thinking and now she was caught up in a battle of wills that had less to do with swaying and more to do with being blown over, and it wasn’t her doing the blowing.

‘Life is hard here,’ said Grandma Z softly, not taking her eyes off Nanny for a second, or even blinking. ‘Do you think, for one second, that we don’t know failure? That is such hubwards thinking. Life is failure, and learning. Which is stronger, the reed that bends against every current, even the slightest, or the tree that stands firm against all but the strongest of winds?’

Nanny growled. She’d be the first to use a metaphor as a blunt instrument * but she didn’t like the experience of being on the receiving end. She couldn’t do this on her own. She knew this now, and so did Grandma Z. The auriental witch continued to bore down through the layers of Nanny’s resistance until the final door lay before her.

* Or, for preference, an innuendo – like blunt instrument, for example

Nanny dragged out a smile that was the barest curling of the lips. ‘Took yer time to get there,’ she croaked. ‘Thought you might’ve got there sooner. Yer so deep now there ain’t no goin’ back.

‘It’s bloody hard to stay true to yerself,’ she continued, each word a struggle, ‘especially when you’ve gotta admit yerself isn’t going to be enough. Do you know what happens to sunlight when it falls on a flower? Just a tip, this ain’t a metaphor, it’s the real thing.’

And with that Nanny opened the final door. Herself.

Grandma Z, who could no more go back than foolishly spoken words can be unspoken, looked on the final dark recesses of Nanny’s mind ... and was astounded.

There was no small dark recess. Instead she found herself looking into a sunny, well-lit room, and standing tall in the middle was the largest brightest flower she’d ever seen. The flower turned its head and, with eyes only the mind can see, gazed deep into Grandma’s.

_It’s all about choices,_ the flower said, _and the most important one is to let yourself be the one to choose them choices. Ain’t that right, Gytha?_

‘Damn right,’ Nanny agreed.

_And we chooses to be a tree that bends and never breaks. We chooses to be the wind, not the wind-blown. We chooses to be us, not I._

‘Ya see Grandma Z,’ Nanny said to the enthralled, entrapped woman, ‘I can’t help but be 100% Nanny. What I had to figure out was that even though there wasn’t any room for more o’ me, I could always bring in some company. You look good in that Esme.’

The flower looked down at itself, all the colours of the rainbow, including the magical colour octarine, unlike any other flower ever to grace the Disc, and preened.

_Got tired o’ black,_ the flower said. _Thought I’d open meself up to some new experiences._

‘Cor,’ said Nanny. ‘Reckon I gotta say you’ve got colourful bloomers.’

_Not all new experiences, thank you Gytha, said the flower firmly. We still got our dignity._

‘You was always coverin’ for me on that front Esme,’ said Nanny with a grin so wicked the devil himself might have believed he was pickpocketed if he saw it.

‘How about a late bloomer, then,’ Nanny said.

_Never been late in my life, Gytha._

‘Must say I always liked bein’ early, meself,’ said Nanny, ‘and as often as possible. O’ cause sometimes that made me a bit late, but life’s too short, I always say.’

_Not in my case,_ the flower said, in a disapproving tone. _Just the right length ... and I ain’t done yet. The title, though, is… acceptable._

_Grandma Z,_ said the flower turning to the riveted woman, _this here is Nanny Ogg. She maybe an old besom but she is a witch of the highest order. Some of her morals are questionable but none of her principles. If she needs something from you, she’s got good reason for askin’. And you’d have good reason for givin’. You might even learn somethin’ from her along the way. I spent a lifetime not telling her I did. One o’ me few regrets._

The flower turned to Nanny and smiled. It was one of those smiles that is the only way some people can let others know how much they mean to them. Nanny grew several inches, which was handy because she had plenty of room to move in that direction.

‘Thank you Esme,’ she said. ‘It was never a one-way street.’

Then the door closed and Grandma Z could breathe again.

‘Tell me what you need,’ she said after a few lung-expanding moments.

‘Sweet,’ replied Nanny. ‘I knew you’d see it from my ... our perspective. Now, let’s start with the problem. By the way, how do you feel about bein’ an army Of Nans?’

‘You mean feudal lords?’

‘Sounds like that means there’s room for some feudal ladies too.’

‘And aren’t we a bit small in numbers for an army?’

‘I’ve always thought size was overrated ... mostly,’ Nanny replied. ‘It ain’t so much what you’ve got ... mostly ... it’s how you use it. Now, who’s ready to lay the boot in? Or slipper,’ she added looking down at the ladies’ feet.

Grandma Z smiled. ‘I think you’ll find it comes down to the feet inside ... and how we use them.’

‘Excellent. Big things can come in small packages. Now about this witch thing. I reckon it’s about time we take ownership of it. Work it to our advantage. What did you say they were like?’

‘Supernatural soul stealers,’ said Blossom. ‘Evil beings.’

‘Right. So everybody is afraid of witches? Good. We can work with that. Change perceptions later, but right now it’s exactly what we need,’ said Nanny. ‘What’s the word for witch?’

‘Wu po,’ said Grandma Z, softly. ‘It is not wise to say it too loudly, lest one hears its name and appears.’

‘Reckon that’s a load of old cobblers,’ replied Nanny. ‘It’s a risk we’ll have to take. Besides, if I was one of them I’d be very careful about taking on an army of Nans. Woo poo, you say? Sounds like somethin’ a horse might do if it had to stop suddenly.’

‘Not woo poo,’ said Grandma Z, not the first victim of Nanny’s unique approach to foreign language, and certainly the last, ‘it’s pronounced woo pwa.’

‘Sounds a damn sight better. Now how do these woo pwa get around?’

‘Mostly they tend to fly.’

‘That’s good news. Any you able to do that?’

Grandma Z shook her head.

‘That’s bad news. Shame I couldn’t bring my broomstick with me. We fly on those back home,’ she explained, and then looked thoughtful.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any dwarfs here, have ya? Short folk. Like digging and money. Good with machinery. Painful little buggers, mostly.’

‘I have not heard the term dwarf before,’ said Beloved Pearl, ‘ but there is a quarter in the city whose residents often fit your description. Do dwarfs also like singing and drinking?’

‘Neither of which they’re good at,’ replied Nanny with a grin. ‘Yep. That’s them. We need to go there first.’

She stood up. ‘Welcome to the exclusive ranks of the Woo Pwa Nans,’ she said. ‘Lead on Beloved Pearl. I think this could be the start of a very big adventure.’

****

Sungai looked down at the baby in her arms and smiled. She didn’t love her more than life itself. That’s a stupid concept. She loved her so much that she had become her life. Sungai loved Esme as much as life itself, and nothing could be more than that.

‘Ook,’ she said softly. The child opened its eyes and smiled. Eyes that had once been blue but now had taken on a green hue, like the jungle around them. It was time.

The bond between the child and her other mother had been growing stronger with each day. At first the ape hadn’t even been aware it was happening, but as her connection to the infant had grown Esme had invited Sungai in. They closed their eyes and in a few heartbeats they were there. Standing in the other place. In front of them was the doorway, with its protective barrier.

Sungai had told the Librarian. After a three-banana contemplation session the ape encouraged her to be there with the child. He explained the concept of parallel worlds and how important it was that they stayed separate. This was different though. This was a connection between the same world, but it was only possible through the grey space, the ether, that separated each world from the others. This ether was a dangerous place. Every environment develops an ecosystem and the ether had its own creatures. Born in this space, if birth was the right word for it. Forever roaming, forever yearning - and what is yearning but a different kind of hunger? It was not the Dungeon Dimensions, which existed in their own sad right. It was the nothing place. The place that made limbo look like a holiday destination.

It was a place that strived to be, and yet could never be allowed in. It was antilife. Any world where the boundary was compromised would be destroyed in the chaos that followed. It would be brutally quick and when it was done there would be nothing left. Nothing bred out of nothing. Not even a memory.

Yet worlds exist. They do this because they are alive, as one single great entity, and living things develop defences, at least if they want to stay living. Every world has a sheath around it. A membrane to keep the diseases out. This was the substance, the barrier that filled the doorway between mother and child.

The Librarian explained, as best he could because the works he’d read on the nothingness could only ever be theoretical for obvious reasons, that Sungai and the child were not in that place but in a dream-like bubble that existed only because of the connection between witch-mother and her child. Two points that touched on the ether and allowed this extraordinary communication to occur. He was worried about how dangerous this could be, not just to Sungai and the child, but the whole of the Discworld existence. But he also knew that this linkage would happen whether he wanted it to or not, so it was better to have Sungai there than not. Probably. That’s the problem when the knowledge of experience is off the table.

Sungai and Esme approached the door and, sure enough, there was a dark shape on the other side, waiting for them.

****

Verence and the Teacher heard everything. Even though they’d waited in Nornia for an age they returned through the wardrobe only seconds after the Gong had been arrested. They were lucky not to get caught themselves. A safe time after the noise had left the room they emerged.

‘Well, that throws a spanner in the works,’ said Verence.

The Teacher pondered the situation. ‘I can’t say I’m well-connected enough to know what the works really are in the bigger scheme of things, or if a spanner is really a spanner, but it seems to me we need to find some form of useful equipment ourselves if we’re to play a part. I’ve always thought the best place to start in finding the most useful equipment of all is the library. Do you agree?’

Verence shrugged, still processing what he’d just heard. He didn’t have any better plan for now.

At least there were no longer any guards on the Gong’s suite. The Library was connected to the palace but in the typical way all libraries are connected and unconnected with the world. You can’t be a warehouse for the imagination and have both feet planted in reality.

Surreptitiously, a much underused word, they found their way to the heart of the library, where Lei Ching surveyed her domain. It is true that there was a Chief Librarian but he had been an official appointment. He knew nothing of the running of the library and his main function was to attend meetings with other royal appointments where grand pictures and politics were discussed. Plans were made and, importantly, never enacted because nothing disturbs harmony like a plan enacted. This approach to managerial selection and overall management is all too common across the multiverse. On the upside, it gave Lei Ching a lot of freedom.

It was one of those confusing conversations where Lei Ching told them all about the Council of War and how they had headed of into the jungle, and that Magrat was safe, that the Nac Mac Feegle were crazy, maybe in a good way, that Lu Tze had taught them new martial arts and was going with them, that Nanny wasn’t and was raising some kind of army of her own, that there was this wizard called Rincewind who didn’t want to be there but was and that Zhanshi had gone with them, but it was a different kind of Zhanshi - whilst Verence introduced Lei Ching to the Teacher, a surreal moment, and then they told her about the Gong’s arrest and the whole Nornia adventure. You can see why it was confusing.

‘So, Jahat would use the power of the Imperial court, wrapped up in the sham of our legal system, to murder the Gong,’ she observed. ‘And the Biads are involved too. I expect there is some connection there. This is serious opposition.

‘On our side we have the most unusual strike force to roam the country, a wildcard witch, maverick orangutans and ...’

‘Us,’ said Verence.

‘A good point, and not to be undervalued, but still not enough, especially with the added problem of the Gong.’

‘The people themselves,’ added the Teacher.

‘Ah, yes, the people,’ Lei Ching said dryly. ‘We could as easily count them amongst the opposition. Superstitious, fearful and selfish.’

‘My point exactly,’ said the Teacher.


	15. Surprise

Auriental dwarfs are as insular as any resident of the Agatean Empire, even more so. This is important, for two reasons. This first has to do with the minor matter of discal economies and the traditional career choices of dwarfs.

Way back in the time of the Ancient Ones, or possibly High Ones, or whatever Ones the Ones were at the time, dwarfs originated from one place, one set of genes*, one society, and this laid down one fundamental trait - they are naturally drawn to mining.

* Or jeans. One way or another racial characteristics will always involve the trouser department.

If social evolution just isn’t your bag, baby, the religious view still gets you to the same place. Dwarfish religion, which is not so much a religion as a recognition of gods, has dwarfs carved out of a geode**. With that sort of launching point it’s an inevitable step towards a mining career.

** There is a problem with this theory. Since the dwarf god, Tak, also carved humans and trolls from the same geode, why aren’t they all drawn to mining too? This argument is easily dismissed since it relies on the flawed assumptions that religion has to make sense and be consistent.***

*** The deeper question to ask yourself is this. Do gods shape the people they create, or is it the other way round?

Of course, just because dwarfs share a common tendency to mine, doesn’t mean they share common ground, as it were. This is particularly the case for those dwarfs that migrated to the counterweight continent. Auriental dwarfs mine for rarity and usefulness. This immediately excludes gold because it’s really too soft to be all the useful and it’s as common as muck. Oh, you can use it for basic things like coins, but in the scheme of things the profit margins aren’t great.

Starting to see the issue now? Imagine if these dwarfs ever got wind of the marketing opportunity for gold in a place such as Ankh Morpork? Not only would the ensuing flood of gold across the world throw economies into chaos, modelling (done by researchers with an extensive history of modelling, ever since they got their first build-your-own-dragon kit*) suggests that the change in discal weight distribution would cause the Disc to fall off the backs of their elephantine carriers.

* Stereotyping has to be acknowledged here. Not all researchers grew up making models in their rooms and some, more recently, have even dabbled in the other kind of modelling careers, but the ongoing emphasis on clothing being both comfortable and practical, the antitheses of any emerging fashion, suggests there’s a long way to go

Which is the first reason why it’s handy that Auriental dwarfs don’t travel much. The second reason was much more pertinent to the current situation. Dwarfs on the Counterweight Continent have never dealt with Lancre witches in general, or Nanny Ogg in the specific. Nanny was fully in favour of improving learning standards and did her bit by being herself, on the basis that knowing her was an education in itself.

It is obviously wrong, just as it was with scientific modellers, to describe dwarfs as money-focussed, serious, prone to aggression, especially around alcohol, stubborn and argumentative. Not all dwarfs fit this description, and many are working hard to break it down. The dwarf Nanny was dealing with was not part of this movement.

Grandma Z’s sphere of influence translated for Nanny though she could have figured most of it out through body language. The dwarf had his arms folded in that way that says ‘you’ve got a problem,’ and the sucking noises through his teeth made it clear it was an expensive one.

‘Broomstick, you say? Flying, you say? Magic you say?’, said Strong-of-Arm, shaking his head slowly. Dwarfs have no truck with the theatre but when it comes to business they’re experts at putting on a show.

‘Mr Strong, if you don’t help us out, payin’ hell will be a darn sight cheaper than payin’ my price,’ said Nanny with a well forged glare.

But the dwarf had grown up in a forge and was immune to any iron-based eyeballing. To Nanny’s surprise she was realising that the dwarf’s lack of knowledge of witches back home meant that he wasn’t aware he needed to be afraid. You need to be reputed to have a reputation. She frowned, and then caught movement in the room behind the counter. She smiled, which might have been helpful to the dwarf in his negotiations if he’d seen it, but probably not. If ignorance of witches was a problem for her, she was going to make ignorance of her a problem for Mr Strong. On her day she was craftier than the annual all-comers craft fair in Ankh-Morpork, and today was that day. As was every other day.

Dwarfs have an issue with sex. Mostly they see it as a complication. There is a general understanding amongst them that it is a necessary part of survival but that doesn’t mean anyone should go around making a fuss of it. There had been some changes happening in Ankh Morpork, but the ripple effect had a long way to travel. Traditional dwarfs, who would argue that a dwarf is not a dwarf if they aren’t traditional, keep their gender very, very private. The fact that female dwarfs can grow a beard to rival their male counterparts is essential to this, as is the latest dwarfish clothing fashion*, which tends towards the armoured equivalent of a potato sack.

* It’s been in vogue for the last one thousand years. We did say traditional, didn’t we?

For that reason you needed very good eyes to pick up certain signs. Nanny had these eyes. She turned around and looked at the other ladies in their group and settled on Blossom. There was something gentler about her. This is a trait often overlooked in negotiations, where the current fashion involves chest-thumping and, for some reason, very bad hair styles. The secret with gentleness is that, with the right tweak, it can become persuasion, one of the fundamental forces of the universe. Force comes in all shapes and sizes and doesn’t always have to be visible to make a difference. Nanny nodded at Blossom and then nodded towards the dwarf in the background. She hoped she got the message. With a wink at Grandma Z she drew Mr Strong out into his shop and away from the back room.

‘So, what would one of these set me back?’ Nanny asked pointing at a contraption that looked like some demonic creation from the Dungeon Dimensions, with wheels, sprockets and pistons in lieu of random limbs and other body parts.

‘That’s my own patented design, that is,’ he said with a huge smile, walking over to the mechanical mystery.

‘What does patented mean?’ asked Grandma Z.

‘When a dwarf’s usin’ it, it means expensive,’ replied Nanny. ‘So, tell me how it works.’

The dwarf launched into an incredibly complicated spiel that typifies someone’s expert subject and, in line with all such spiels, reflected no interest in the knowledge of the listener. Spieling is not communicating, its prothletising. Nanny stopped listening, which is the only sane survival strategy in this context. The important thing was that Mr Strong was distracted and Nanny could see Blossom engaging quietly with the other dwarf.

There is a zen state that descends at times like these. Nanny’s mind drifted and the dwarf’s conversation took on a distant blowfly-buzzing-on-glass nature.

I wonder how that whole Granny/flower thing works? she thought.

_Haven’t figured that out meself yet._

Is that you Esme?

_Maybe._

Or it is me thinking it’s you but it’s really me?

_That’s the other maybe._

So, it could be one or the other?

_That’s usually how it works._

That ain’t very helpful, Esme.

_You know what I’ve always said about helpin’ people Gytha._

‘I helps people to help themselves.’

_Unless, they’re helpless, o’ course. Then I helps them too, one way or another._

So, with that whole flower thing, said Nanny, was that you helpin’ me, or you helpin’ me to help myself, or just me thinking it was you helpin’ me to help meself?

_Does it really matter in the end?_

It does to me. Doesn’t it to you?

_Nope. Don’t care if I’m real or a figment as long as it helps. Besides, can’t answer you._

Why not?

_Because I don’t know._

A gentle tap on the shoulder drew Nanny back into what we choose to call reality. She blinked and turned to Blossom who bent and whispered in her ear. After a few moments a smile spread across her face like a deeply wrinkled sunrise.

‘Thanks Bloss,’ she said and shifted her focus to the dwarf, who was still waxing lyric about the wonders of his invention. He was up to the part where cubic centimetres were involved and apparently quite a lot of thrust. His eyes glowed with mounting excitement. Nanny knew all about untimely interruptions. Normally she’d wait for matters to run their course but today she had a point to prove.

‘Mr Strong,’ she said loudly, derailing the dwarf before his enthusiasm could reach its conclusion, ‘how do you feel right now?’

The dwarf was still grappling with the unwanted change in direction, just when he was really hitting his straps. He shook his head in frustration. ‘What do you mean?’ he replied, valiantly trying to remember this stupid old woman was a customer and to keep his annoyance at bay.

‘I think I might be able to help you out,’ said Nanny. ‘You see,’ she continued, dropping her voice, ‘I’m what you might call on expert in the matrimonial field...and a few other related fields, too.’

The dwarf should have laughed out loud at the ample, wrinkled old woman standing in front of him as the implications of those words sank in. He would have too, despite his best efforts at staying calm, if he hadn’t looked into her eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, which up until now Mr Strong had considered one of those glib statements made by non-dwarfs but what he saw in Nanny’s eyes was bringing about a rapid re-evaluation of this concept. Then she winked. There are few sentient beings that can withstand the power of a Nanny wink and even less that could possibly misinterpret it. The dwarf sighed and turned to look at his partner who was standing in the shadows of the workshop.

‘What has Golden Otter told you?’ he said.

‘The truth, Mr Strong,’ replied Nanny. ‘Some people can’t handle that sort of thing, but I reads you as someone who is strong enough to face up to it. Here’s the thing. Everybody thinks everything is supposed to be perfect and that if they got problems they’re somehow unique. I can tell you now, there’s a darn sight less uniqueness out there than most people realises. There’s a reason why some married folk come to me for help and why I’m damn good at givin’ it. Cause it happens all the time, and I am somethin’ of an expert in the lists o’ love. And my personal list of love is a bloody long one.’

‘So, what’re you offering?’ asked the dwarf, with all the trepidation and caution of a businessman looking at the wrong end of the pineapple.

‘I’ll sort out your marital ... impediments, and you’ll make us the flying broomsticks we need. I reckon we can help with the magical side of the operation.’

‘Sounds a fairly lopsided deal to me,’ Mr Strong replied, fighting to protect his professional dignity. ‘That’s a lot of broomsticks.’

‘No worries,’ Nanny countered. ‘We’ll throw in protection against attacks by witches.’

‘Witches?’ The dwarf shuddered at the thought but rallied. ‘I’ve never had to be protected from them before.’

‘Well, you might now,’ observed Nanny, with a dangerous glint in her eye. This was followed by a quick scan of the other women present. A scan that was less about seeking support and more about totalling numbers.

‘That’s extortion,’ he growled. ‘You’re running a protection racket.’

‘Puttin’ a name to it don’t change the facts. The real issue for you is to weigh up some short term discomfort against long term gain ... and pain.’

Dwarfs are stubborn, but even they have limits. Nanny had none. Mr Strong grudgingly nodded in agreement. Strictly speaking, it was more like acquiescence but his pride simply couldn’t cope with that concept. Besides, some things really could be better, he had to admit, stealing a sideways glance at Golden Otter, whose face was a mask of worry. Then, because business is only business but there’s nothing ‘only’ about love, he gave a little smile.

Mr Strong straightened to his full height which, admittedly, left plenty of straightening room by other races standards but, as Nanny would say, it’s not what you’ve got that counts but what you do with it.*

* Mostly.

‘So, Mrs ....

‘Ogg, Mr Strong.’

‘I agree to build you the broomsticks, and I will do so with all speed,’ said the dwarf. ‘I get the strongest impression the need is urgent and, hopefully, the cause is good. In return you will offer me lifelong protection from ... witches ... and help us with some... delicate matters.’

‘Agreed,’ said Nanny, shaking his extended hand. ‘Guarantee the matters won’t be delicate soon enough. Won’t just make things better either. You’ll be firing on all cylinders, even the ones you and Golden Otter didn’t know you had.’

Mr Strong blushed. ‘Perhaps there’s something more you should know before we go too much further with addressing my personal matters.’

‘Whatever you say Mr Strong.’

‘It’s not _Mr_ Strong, Mrs Ogg.’

Remember the thing about dwarfs and sex?

Nanny was surprised. It’s important that life makes sure people who think they know everything are administered a good dose of surprise every so often. Unexpectedly, of course.


	16. Flight

The plan was to raid attack at night on the grounds that the enemy couldn’t see them properly … but the plan suffered one major drawback, which rapidly became evident. The attack force couldn’t see much either. This, in itself, might have qualified as a minor setback but the Feegles habit of attacking the nearest body available in any fight raised the status to major. It’s true that the workers and their protectors suffered at the hands of the assault force, but so did the assault force.

‘Stick tha’ one in ya, bigjob.’

‘Ach, ya idjit, Daft Wullie, tha’s me. Can ye no tell a Feegle from a bigjob?’

‘Well, ya is Big Yan, Big Yan,’ the darkness replied. ‘If ya was Wee Yan it wouldae been more obvious.’

And so it went. It was even more dangerous for Lu Tze, Zhanshi and Magrat who were the right size for confusion. They’d be grappling with an enemy and the next thing they knew they’d have a Feegle up the trouser leg. This included Magrat, whose clothing of choice for combat was loose legged slacks; a choice that had never taken Feegle confusion into account. This is a rookie error when pictsies are in a fighting mood*. If the party had wanted to create chaos, they’d certainly achieved it.

* All the time.

‘Retreat, retreat,’ a cry went up.

This had no discernible effect; retreat being one of a very large lexicon of words the Feegles didn’t know the meaning of.

‘Ummmm.... Crivens? .... gang awa’? ... it’s the law.... wailey, wailey, wailey...’

There are few things in any dimension the Feegles fear but the Law belongs on that short list. It’s not the fear of police, as such, that’s just another opportunity for pugilistic enjoyment, it’s the possibility of ending up in court and being entangled in legalese. Of all the languages on the Disc they can’t understand Legalese takes prime position. Only Wee Mad Arthur would have had a chance and he’d stayed back to protect the Kelda and the mound.

A great wailing filled the air. ‘Offski, offski, offski,’ cried Rob. A poetical account would have them melting into the night but Feegles are to classical poetry what financial accounting is to extreme adventure*. The Feegles tore their way through the darkness.

* Except in the case of Nobby ‘Zorro’ Clark, of course. We shall never see his like, or his body, again.

All plans, even good ones, benefit from a debrief. This had not been, by any reasonable standard, a good one.

‘This gorilla warfare is for the wee birdies,’ growled Rob after even the regrouping proved to be something of a shambles. Eventually they lit a small fire to bring in the stragglers, keeping guard for gatecrashers.

‘But Mr Anybody,’ began Magrat who, despite years of living in the rural pessimism that was Lancre’s national pastime, still always looked for the bright side, ‘we did inflict some damage and create uncertainty.’

‘’Aye. Shame it weren’t on them. Schemie monkey business it is .... and who was it who put up the cry o’ the Law?’

His eyes scanned the firelit circle until they settled on one figure in the shadows.

‘It waz you, waznae it, ye great white streak,’ Rob said pointing his finger.

Rincewind nodded.

‘Aye, and it wazzz me that told him the wordzzz,’ said the Gonnagle, perched on the wizard’s shoulder. ‘Ye cannae put the lives of others at risk. Mebbe we Feegles is already dead*, but the bigjobs ain’t and we hae a duty o’ care to them. Where izzz yer honour?’

* The Feegles believe they are already in heaven because the Disc provides for everything they need - items to steal, alcohol to drinking and fighting is available, free of charge.

Feegles take their honour seriously and as the words sank in Rob had the decency to look sheepish, though it wasn’t any sheep a farmer would ever consider shearing.

‘Besides, tha’ were a true embarrassment o’ an attack,’ continued the Gonnagle. ‘The Feegle clan has to learn to work wi’ others, and to know when tae leave.’

‘But we ne’er leave a fight,’ cried Daft Wullie.

‘Ach?,’ said Rincewind carefully. ‘It’s nae? leaving a fight, it’s planning fer the next one. It’s what we bigjobs call Strategy.’

The Feegles brightened. They couldn’t see a problem with that logic, though seeing problems or logic, for that matter, were not things they practiced often.

‘Mebbe yer no such a scunner after all Rincy,’ said Rob. ‘P’raps we could learn more about how tae ‘plan the next fight’ from ye. So what did we learn this time?’

‘Not to attack at night,’ said Lu Tze, finishing off the stub of a primal cigarette. ‘And they’re tough. But we’ll get better. Tomorrow Rincewind can teach you something about survival. Then we attack again.’

This met with a rousing cheer.

We really do need Mrs Ogg, Lu Tze thought. We can’t do this on our own.

 

****

The rumour on the street is the most dangerous rumour of all. It’s even more problematic, at least for the powers that be, when there are two rumours, and they start working in tandem.

Where they had started, no one was sure. Rumours are like jokes in this fashion. The difference is that people are always trying to claim jokes but few are willing to claim rumours. In fact, it seemed like the rumours had started up in many places at once. The first rumour was the Gong had been arrested for treason, and that a representative of the People’s committee may even attend the trial. This, in itself, was hardly a surprise, it was part b) that was causing headaches for Jahat, who was discovering that a lot of planning and management featured a desire to tear your hair out.

The adjunct to the rumour was that the people would rise up against this. Jahat would have found it more helpful if the rumour contained some specifics, like who, how many, when and where, but this is not typically in the nature of rumours.

The second rumour was, in its own way, just as troubling. On nearly every street corner it seemed there was talk of witches. That they were flying around the land and ready to cause some unspecified level of grief. Even worse, it seemed to be weaving itself into the first rumour, which made no sense. Witches were evil spirits, so why would they be involved in some sort of uprising? Jahat was all in favour of the public of being afraid, but not when he wasn’t in control of it.

Now word has reached him of an attack on one of the logging sites. He’d have to act. He was a master at the game of Go, but he was beginning to realise how much harder it was when you weren’t allowed to see the opponents pieces, or even know what pieces they had.

****

The squadron of witches took off in perfect formation. As they flew across the sky they made migratory birds that have this sort of flying hard-wired into their DNA green with envy, unless they were already green, in which case they tended towards royal blue.

This description perfectly captures the opposite of what unfolded. Flying is an art form, and art-forms rarely depict legs and arms going all over the place with up and down being optional titles for direction*. None of the witches, with the exception of Nanny, had any experience with flying, let alone on a state-of-the-art broomstick.

* Except in art galleries where pretention is the main currency or establishments that specialise in artworks for an exclusive and generally secretive clientele

And they were state-of-the-art. Once she agreed to the arrangement Ms Strong didn’t hold back in her design. She also had access to something no other dwarf in the history of broom-making had had access to - sapient pearwood. The broomsticks she manufactured were not only of the sleekest design, they were infused with natural magic. Strictly speaking this magic wouldn’t have been natural once, sapient pearwood was a by-product of the Mage wars centuries ago, but now it was the new norm; much like the rolling English hills seem always to have been deforested. It’s something of a testament to nature that it goes on, despite the worst efforts of humans. Of course, how it goes on is a different matter, and one that all too many people conveniently avoid pondering.* This meant that Nanny didn’t have to inject any magic in the timber, she just had to work with Ms Strong to get it right. They mostly did. The one thing that was unavoidable was that no broomstick ever made out of sapient pearwood was going to be anything but turbo-charged and this made for a very steep, in every sense of the word, learning curve, also in every sense of the word.

* Other than most scientists, who persist in drawing attention to facts, as if they’ve ever had much traction when they come up against human inertia and self-interest.

The witches carved out patterns on the sky that would make a drunk magpie with vertigo look like a swan in flight. Eventually, though, after considerable shrieking and unscheduled landings, often in treetops, the squadron took up something that approximated a formation.

This had one important, if unintended, side effect. You can’t fly around the sky over a city, screaming, without being noticed by someone. If there was a rumour before about witches being on the move, it had now stepped firmly into reality. The screaming was a particularly convincing addition, as everyone knew the preferred mode of conversation with a witch always featured plenty of shrieking.

Nanny hovered in mid-air, holding back the racehorse of a broom she sat astraddle. She pulled out the watch Lu Tze had given here. The hands had moved closer to the tide mark but there was still a ways to go.

‘Alright,’ she shouted to the bucking airforce, ‘let’s move out over the jungle and see what turns up.’

The witches pointed themselves towards the deep green fringe of forest and swept towards their destiny. Broomsticks always sweep towards their destination.

They had barely got over the jungle when destiny swept towards them and something rather unexpected decided to turn up.

****

At times like these everyone has a council of war. If you didn’t you were simply out of touch and out of fashion.

This particular council of war involved the Teacher, Verence, Lei Ching and a few trusted residents who were now part of what was rumoured to be the People’s Front Of Weizhi.

‘What have the Agatean ever given us?’ cried one of the assembled group.

‘Let’s not go down that path, Brother Rheg,’ said the Teacher, dimly aware that some universal comedic theme was at play. ‘We need to deal with the problem of the Gong’s arrest. The rumours are working in our favour but is seems to me that we are still not enough, especially with the emissary from the Empire arriving shortly. We are playing with very high stakes.’

Verence raised his hand. ‘I think I may be able to slow things down,’ he said. ‘Nothing like bringing another country into the mix to raise the spectre of international diplomacy, even if Lancre is not the largest country on the Disc,’ he conceded.

‘We will need more than that,’ added Lei Ching. ‘Nanny and the others have a mission they must complete, but we will need them back here as well, as soon as possible. We need someone to take the message to them and it cannot be Verence, he’d be a foreigner. We need the Teacher with us and can’t risk him being captured. We need a volunteer.’

The assembled People’s Front shuffled their feet, which is a universal response when confronted with having your unwavering commitment to a cause tested for its waverability. Dedication is a fine thing, but it’s far less appealing when actual action is required. This is when it’s handy to have a zealot or two. It’s not that zealots are any less self-absorbed than other people, it’s just that they’ve redefined what self means.

Lei Ching nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it. You all have lives you need to care for and protect. Each one of you. You’re all individuals.’

The assembled grouped inwardly sighed with relief. ‘Yes, we’re all individuals,’ they chorussed.

‘I’m not,’ said a voice at the back. There always has to be one, doesn’t there? You can thank the gods, or more specifically, thank Ironica, the two-faced Goddess of Paradox* for that.

* There is a fine statue of her at Quirm, riding her legendarily stupid bull, Oxymoron. 

‘So it is decided. I will take the message to our allies. Time, no doubt, will be of the essence.’

This observation rarely needs stating but no self-respecting planning session would be complete without it.

****  
The Mei-Land Penninsula, which extends into the Widdershins Ocean is home a particularly virulent plant known as Aggressive Bamboo. All bamboo is aggressive by nature, but this particular species had evolved this concept to a new level. They sprout from the ground in vicious stabbing points and houses constructed on the ground tend to be elevated several feet a day during the growing season.

The one aspect of this evolutionary creation is that, up until now Aggressive Bamboo is native only to that particular Peninsula. Or it was, until an environmentally inconsiderate bird had consumed the seed of the bamboo and then, in an act of ecological vandalism, deposited this seed, as only birds know how, on the unsuspecting soil of the island of Bhangbhangduc.

Things could have gone terribly wrong for the whole ecosystem if the Bamboo had not unwisely chosen to sprout right at the time that the Luggage stormed overhead. The Luggage was always in a foul mood. Most recently it has encountered a wild boar that had challenged its presence in his part of the forest. Pork was clearly bad for the Luggage’s digestion. Having a small spear stuck in its foot did nothing to diminish its anger.

The Luggage stopped. Turned back and stomped down. Hard. Many, many times over. Until there was nothing of the bamboo left to stomp. And then it stomped some more. Stomping was one of the few things that gave it a sensation that approximated happiness.

Then it ploughed on. It’s possible that in its journey through the forest it made some rare animals all the rarer, but in balance its single act of unbridled anger had done more for the land of Bhanbhangduc than most environmentalists can achieve in a lifetime. Ironica is a very busy goddess.


	17. Oh what a tangled web

Most zealots have fairly short life-expectancies but casual ones shouldn’t even buy green bananas. It was fortunate that her training in cataloguing had given Lei Ching a meticulous approach planning. This was why she took a circuitous route out of the city heading towards where she’d calculated the most likely location would be for the others. It was also why she came across the imperial troops before their outriders came across her. It didn’t take the Teacher to figure out where they were heading or who had sent them.

Her mission had taken on a double urgency now but the risk of trying to get around the troops was too high and any other track she took would be too long. She would just have to follow and take any opportunity that came her way.

****

In some cultures it’s traditional to attack out of the sun in an aerial dogfight but that’s a lot of fiddle so the attack, when it came, was from the jungle below. A flock of black shapes swarmed out of the jungle, looking rapidly like no bird Nanny had ever seen.

‘Witches, our kind of witch,’ Grandma Z screamed.

High on the list of the many things Nanny and the others hadn’t practiced was aerial combat. They took evasive action, which didn’t prove that difficult as the erratic changes in direction weren’t that different to their attempts at flying in formation.

The Bhangbhangducian witches had never used broomsticks to fly with. They were as much of the spirit world as that of flesh and blood and had no need for material items to fly. They simply pointed their bodies like arrows, arm outstretched in the direction they were heading. This made them incredibly manoeuvrable, which is extremely handy unless, of course, you weren’t them.

The rumour of invading witches had reached the ears of the local witches and though they were worlds apart, in so many ways, from the foreigners they did have one thing in common. Witches don’t really understand the concept of being competitive any more than fish understand the concept of water. Competition is part of the natural environment and the last thing they were going to do was accept the intrusion. This was an aerial turf war.

What the broomsticks lost in mobility they made up for in speed, so for a while the conflict looked something like a boxing ring with one fighter chasing the other, but this could only go on for so long.

What destroyed witches? Nanny racked her brain. Back at home it was usually being shamed by another witch. For some reason the idea of a bucket of water sprang to mind. She certainly knew of a few witches that could have benefited from more bathing. Granny Wormwood was a classic for forgetting her monthly bath, a tactic she used to ensure only genuine cases of need came to her, or those with nasal blockages, but she couldn’t remember any witches being melted by water. Besides, it was a rainforest. Witches who had trouble with water in this environment would have the life expectancy of a rat in a dwarf bar.

As she dodged and weaved she looked down at the broomstick. Ms Strong had gone all out with the design. There were buttons everywhere. Nanny wished she’d paid a little more attention to what she’d been told they did. Some were clearly for directing the broom, there was one that looked like a big spring that she suspected wouldn’t be helpful right now, another that had proved to be a broomstick warmer when she’d bumped it. Handy for those cold altitudes she guessed and a surprisingly interesting sensation she’d planned to explore further later. Again, not much help right now.

Then there was the funny button with a picture like a dandelion clock. When Ms Strong had pointed it out and told her she was the only one with this option Nanny had been distracted by the thought that it looked just like Magrat’s hairstyle. This was the only button with a description - dragon blossom. She had a vague memory of Ms Strong saying to use it only in emergencies and with no other witch around. This situation clearly ticked the emergency box. Now to sort out the other matter. Lucky she knew witches like the back of her wrinkled hand.

‘Right,’ she screamed, veering away, ‘let’s see which one of you half-baked witches thinks they can handle me!’

Witches are like cats, they’re innately curious. You have to be if you’re a know-it-all, and all witches shared that personality trait. They also shared another feature with the feline world. They tend not to have leaders because every cat thinks they’re the best. In no time at all Nanny was surrounded by every single one of Bhangbhangducians.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing Ms Strong.’

Nanny was a witch too, which meant she was always going to try the button at some time. She just hoped it was the right time. She pressed it.

It is said that there is no time like the present, which is true. It stands unique, constantly changing. This moment of present took its job seriously and made sure it would go down in history.

It started with a click. Not one of those benign clicks that fail to deliver anything. This was a sound that held a promise of malignancy, at least for someone.

Nanny’s broomstick began to move slowly. There was nothing she could do to stop it even if she wanted to. The movement became more and more rapid, the nose pointing out every direction on the compass, in a fashion guaranteed to result in the loss of at least one meal. Nanny clenched and held on for the ride. It was fortunate that an adventurous lifestyle had given her thighs that could outclench an octopus and balance that could break even the most determined mechanical bulls.

The spinning broomstick reached some Nirvana point of gyration and all the sound went out of the world. The spirit witches seemed frozen into place. Some places are fairly harmless though not this one, as it turned out.

There was a great inrush of air, which the laws of nature and magic take firm views on. If you pack a small space with a lot of energy it’s going to go somewhere, often quickly. It went.

It’s not possible to adequately describe what unfolded without a major cinematic budget. You need an extraordinarily good imagination. Start with the words explosion of energy and fire and go your hardest. Even then you won’t come close.

Great bolts of flame, octiron in colour, shot out from the broomstick in all directions, encasing Nanny in a ball of eye-searing brightness. A ball that neatly included the spirit witches. There was a loud, silent pop and suddenly the light display was gone. It took some time for the eyes to adjust and when they did Grandma Z and the others saw Nanny slowly spinning to a halt, surrounded by a strange drifting haze that no one in their right mind would want to enter.

The Bhangbhangducian witches may have shared many of the attributes of cats but not the one that involved nine lives.

‘Well that was a bugger,’ said Nanny, and then began to spiral downwards. A magical broomstick without any magic left is just a broomstick, and they’ve never been suited to anything but very short flights. Nanny proceeded to lighten the load on the broomstick but all this did was make the descent even more unpleasant, and sticky.

***

Nanny was still grappling with consciousness as she struck the upper canopy. The impact was anything but comfortable but it did slow her fall. She was eternally grateful for her traditional witch’s clothing, which is the closest thing to chain mail you can get out of woven cloth. Boots that could easily feature rivets helped too. Her relief was short-lived, though, owing to the nature of rainforests. The trick to a tree surviving in a rainforest is to get as much foliage into the canopy as possible so you can grab the sunlight. Any other growth is just wasted effort. This means very tall trees with very high leaves and nothing much else until you get to the forest floor.

The very clothing that had saved Nanny, combined with the physical dimensions of a life lived to the full, now worked against her. With an ominous crack the branch she had momentarily come to rest on gave way and she plunged on again, at a rapidly increasing rate that attracts descriptions like terminal velocity.

****

The loggers were moving onto a new area. Technically this new area stood beyond the Great Wall that the Agatean Empire had put in place to keep out invaders. It must have worked because the Empire had managed not to be invaded since its construction, though this may also have had something to do with the fact that virtually all of the invading that had occurred was at the hands of the Empire. That’s the thing about Empires, they have a balloon-like tendency to expand and, much like the analogy, a habit of exploding. The first problem you encounter in expansion mode is that any wall, let’s say a Great Wall, generally turns out to be something of a problem. Bhangbhangduc had a part of the Great Wall right through its centre. This was not good for business when your business involved lumber and some of the sweetest lumber lay outside the Wall. As a consequence a small section of the wall had been carefully removed to allow the flow of timber. The most important aspect of this care had been distributing exactly the right amount of bribery to the guardians of the wall. And the inspectors of the guarded Wall. And the supervisors of the inspectors, and so on. Bribery is like ivy. Once you’ve got it it gets everywhere and trying to remove it completely is almost impossible. Democratically elected governments have a habit of claiming to rid the country of bribery, but then use porkbarrelling to get re-elected, so it’s hard to take that too seriously.

What it meant was that the loggers were now in the wilds beyond the Wall, but a short easy wall-unencumbered stroll from civilisation. It’s not civilisation that should be afraid of the wilderness. It’s the wilderness that’s got really concerns.

Magrat and the others had decided to stop in the heat of the day and allow everyone to get some rest. They’d catch up with the loggers later.

Magrat hadn’t even got to that half sleep that tells you the real thing is on the way when the vision hit her. It had been getting stronger each time, but this one came with such forced urgency that she gasped and her eyes sprung open. Esmeralda and Sungai were both still there in her mind, and for the first time she could understand what they were telling her. Still holding onto the waking dream she shook Lu Tze from his own drowsiness.

‘Lu Tze, I can see them when I’m awake, and there’s a huge problem. We have to attack as soon as possible. The new area the loggers have gone to is home to an orangutan family and they’re trapped.

‘Wait….. Sungai’s trying to tell me something.’ She cocked her head to one side, listening, and then nodded.

‘The link is strong enough now. They need me. I’m going through. See you there.’

Magrat reached out her arm but at the same time didn’t. It just disappeared into the air beside her, which was contriving to look a lot more liquid than normal. The witch’s eyes widened for a second and with a jerk like a marionette on a string she was gone.

Gone before Lu Tze had the chance to ask whether this was a good idea. Gone before he’d had the chance to advise her on anything. Magrat had told him about the visitations very early on. He’d been uncertain about how it all worked and had kept some of his concerns to himself because of that.

Concerns were a complex creature. Sometimes they were more like an infection that could spread like wildfire, leaving their own version of burnt out landscape behind, a path of destruction through the countryside of reality. But other times sharing them could suture a situation. The trick was to figuring out which was in play at any given time. It’s one of those challenges that makes you realise why sentience comes with its own share of problems. Right now Lu Tze was wondering if he should have spoken more about the barrier between time and place. Not that anything was certain and the upside was that, if things didn’t go pear-shaped, Magrat’s experiences would add to the wider pool of understanding. If they did go pear-shaped that would also expand the pool of knowledge, on one proviso. She’d have to survive it first. Anyone who thinks they’re the first to discover an unexplored territory hasn’t gone looking hard enough for the bones of their predecessors.

Lu Tze did the only thing he could do. He went to wake the others. Time was usually his ally, but it didn’t feel too friendly at the moment.


	18. So it begins

Lu Tze, despite his time travelling, had never been into the space between. The ether. He always slide along the skin of time that lay outside it. The Librarian knew L-Space, but this was a different dimension altogether. It was a wormhole universe. The elves lived in parasitic universes. Djelibeybi had once slipped into its own universe, corruptions of life existed in the Dungeon Dimensions, but they all had one thing in common. They had place. The ether had none. It is as large as forever and small as never. It was beyond any yardstick. Magrat was through in an instant but an instant has no meaning in the ether. There’s plenty of time, when time is irrelevant, for something to happen.

****

Getting the troops mobilised was easy enough; the Feegles were always ready for a fight.

‘Rememb’r what we learned about stra’edgy from tha’ cowerin’ piece o’ ....’

Lu Tze coughed.

‘.... Cree-at-ive thinker, Rincewind,’ continued Rob, without missing a stride. Feegles are so adept at putting their foot into things, they’ve also developed fair skill at feet removal, excepting Daft Wullie, of course.

‘There’s been a slight change of plans,’ the monk added. ‘Magrat, has gone to help others.’

Then he drew a large watch out of his pocket and turned the dial to a picture of the sea. ‘I hope Mrs Ogg gets that message in time,’ he added. ‘The last thing we need is a tide that won’t turn.’

‘I’m not one for speeches,’ he continued. ‘...’

The Feegles shouted and clapped in unison. ‘Great speech,’ said Rob as the pictsies scattered to collect weaponry. ‘Sucksinkt. The kinda speech we Feegles appreciate.’

‘I hadn’t quite finished,’ said the monk. ‘I was going to say something about being on our own and having to stand on our own two feet and do our best and so on.’

‘Och, there’s no need for that,’ replied the Feegle. ‘We do alla that alla the time. Nothing new there at all. No need to inspire us. The speeches we Feegles like to hear are victory ones, so let’s make sure it’s a grand old victory, ye ken?’

Which, in its own way was an inspirational speech. A very sucksinkt one. The monk nodded and smiled.

****

‘Rob,’ said Zhanshi as they got ready to move out, ‘how did I go in that last battle? Did I get the berserk thing right?’

‘Ach, weel,’ said Rob carefully, not wanting to discourage the young man, ‘it were a fine start. Plenty o’ anger there, boot it fell a wee short o’ genuine berserk.’

Zhanshi looked crestfallen. Somewhere along the line he’d gone from cautious engagement to passionate activism. This tends to happen when you spend time with people like Nanny and Feegles. The problem was he was on a steep learning curve and the added difficulty with that was that he had pictsies as teachers and their approach to teaching largely didn’t involve the fairly essential element of actually teaching.

But they are open to flashes of inspiration, rare as they maybe. One flitted past Rob and he grabbed it with both hands.

‘Hae ya heard o’ brose?’

Zhanshi shook his head.

‘Ach, it’s a wee drinkie we Feegles hae invented. It keeps us warm on winter nights and adds some fire tae the belly afore a wee altercation. I happen to have a flask wi’ me. I’m a thinkin’ it might be you as needs it more ‘an me.’

He pulled out a tiny hip flask from the depths of his sprog. Despite its size the flask was crafted, or more accurately built, of a metal that suggested that it was a serious container because of the seriousness of the content.

‘I’ll nae open it,’ said Rob. ‘Once opened you hae to drink it. All doon in one go. Ye ken.’

Zhanshi grinned, his spirits rising in the presence of the other more formidable version of spirit. He took the flask carefully and placed it in his own pocket for later.

The thing about inspiration is that you only get to find out if it’s good or bad when it’s too late to back out.

****

The chance came from an unexpected quarter. A shout and a pointing skywards. Lei-Ching looked up and what she saw unfolding across the deep blue made her stop in her very carefully laid out tracks. No wonder the troops were distracted.

The sky was normally as large and empty as a giant blue crystal bowl, except in the wet season, of course. Nothing is as full as a monsoon heaven. It should have been oppressively empty now. Instead, it was being cut into ribbons, by shapes, figures that simply shouldn’t be there. From this distance you couldn’t see much detail. There appeared to be two clear groups; one dressed all in black, flying around the other, unaided. The other, flying on something, didn’t seem to have a uniform, didn’t seem to have much control and certainly didn’t seem to be winning.

And then something changed. One of the players in this surreal scene flew away from everyone, drawing behind her what looked like every single one of the black figures. Mesmerised, she watched as the dark shapes surrounded the lone flyer. It should have ended quickly, and it did, but unexpectedly. The flyer at the heart of the sphere began to rotate. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until it reached such blurring speed that the rest of time stood still. Light on the Disc travels slowly and the soundless explosion, when it came, struck in a blinding flash of light.

In that moment while the world was spellbound Lei Ching knew this was her opportunity. Breaking free, with some effort, from her own transfixiation she moved quickly through the jungle, leaving the babbling conversation and skyward eyes behind. A lifetime of keeping recalcitrant books in order on even the most inaccessible shelves and ventures into the wilds of L-Space had given her the sort of physique that some people spend hours working on in a gym, when it all it takes is plenty of hard work. She sprinted. There was little chance of giving much warning of the impending attack, but little chance is, at least mathematically speaking, infinitely better than none.

****

The ship docked. Or ships rather. Flotilla may have been a more accurate description. Fleet certainly sprang to mind. And even though royalty was currently off the political menu in Agatea the trappings certainly weren’t. This was the sea-going royal barge, one of the most expensive vessels to travel the ocean waves. Of course it made good, practical sense to travel by existing transport even if it was a symbol of an anachronistic system of rulership. It had nothing to do with a level of luxury that even Creosote, the wealthiest and most extravagant person on the Disc, would describe as a little over the top and gaudy.

Waiting on the dock with his own comparatively tiny retinue, Jahat’s nervousness reached new heights. There was no doubting it was the royal barge, surrounded by the sort of business-like battle cruisers that inspired any wandering pirates to take the day off. There was also no doubt who the most important passenger would be.

Just because the position of Emperor no longer technically existed after the Glorious Revolution, didn’t mean that the power of the leader had diminished, or lost its aura. You don’t lose that godlike status overnight. People, despite a long history of evidence to the contrary, are always looking to some form of higher power to comfort them. The days of the brutal reigns of emperors were gone, for now, but power follows the law of conservation of energy. It is never destroyed, it adapts. The Chairman, was just as powerful and quite possibly more dangerous. For starters, the People’s Committee, had been taking a genuine interest in the world, and that was never a good thing, as far as Jahat was concerned.

The ramp was lowered, with much ceremony and the Chairman and their advisors disembarked.

‘Madame Butterfly,’ Jahat said with a bow so low and florid that it made the word obsequious feel like going home and having a quiet lie down.

‘Chairman* Butterly, to you, Jahat,’ she replied. ‘We have come a long way to hear more about this situation that has arisen. Take us to our chambers. We will convene the hearing once we are refreshed. Expect that to be sooner than you expect. The People’s Committee has much to do, and the People’s Beneficial Republic has much that needs to be done.’

* Technically Madame Butterfly was the Chairman despite the obvious gender issue in the title. The reason was simple enough. Chairperson sounded like a word that should never exist and Chair, whilst being satisfying utilitarian was unsatisfyingly wooden. Chairman persisted only until something better came along. For the record, Leader is not something better. It tends to attract adjectives like Fearless, and once you go down that path, there’s no coming back.

Jahat bowed again, hiding a nervous swallow. It’s one thing to think you’re an alligator, it’s another to find yourself swimming with them.

****

The spiderweb twanged and the giant spider that haunted Lurkwood, as this part of the rainforest was called and avoided by locals for good reason, sprang into alertness. It was a good solid twang. It would be eating well for many days to come.

The futile struggling that it sensed as it approached would have made it smile if smiling was something spiders did. It could be a deer, or even a large wild pig. It salivated at the prospect.

Things would have indeed gone poorly for such an animal, but such an animal it was not. An angry wild boar can be challenging but it is nothing to compare with an angry wild Nanny.

What followed is best not described in case it upsets archnophiles but suffice to say that in a few short minutes the giant spider, now a member of the insect family on a leg-counting basis, was rapidly moving off through forest, contemplating a vegetarian lifestyle. Or, at the very least a relocation. He’d heard on the spidervine about a promising vacancy in a temperate forest in another part of the Disc following an unfortunate incident involving dwarves. A change is as good as a holiday.

When the other witches arrived, expecting to see a scene of carnage they weren’t disappointed, but it wasn’t what they’d imagined. Nanny was covered in some form of ichor, the passage through her own breakfasts and thick spiderweb. It was the stuff of nightmares, though not so much Nanny’s when you looked at the ichor more closely and noted the presence of several large detached hairy legs.

‘Can’t say I enjoyed that much,’ said Nanny, ‘though I reckon I’ve had worse.’ Thankfully she didn’t expand on that.

‘Still, reckon we’ve seen the last of those witches,’ she continued breezily. ‘Remind me to thank Ms Strong on return. Also to never press that button again.’

Just then her pocket pinged. She drew out the large pocket watch Lu Tze had given her and looked at it.

‘Blast,’ she said, ‘we’re going to be late. Anyone got some spare juice in their broomstick?’

****

Magrat smiled at Sungai and the ape, with only a flicker of regret, smiled back and held the child up. Magrat reached out carefully and more gently than she wanted too, hugged Esmeralda to her breast.

‘Thank you,’ she said to Sungai. ‘You saved our lives,’ and then she burst into tears.

The power of the emotion that flowed through her was overwhelming. Was it always like this? she thought in amazement. _Was it always like this?_ the thought came again.

Of course it must be. She’d just never been this far from Esmeralda and never for this long.

_Of course it must be._

Esmeralda laughed and, as only a young child can, hugged her mother back, bringing on another surge of wonder. Magrat drank it up before tucking the child under her arm and reaching out to the ape. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she said drawing her into a threefold embrace. ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better friend. Esmeralda will always be safe with you.’

_Friend? Safe?_

‘Now, we must see the others,’ the witch side of Magrat said, taking over as needed. ‘There is much to talk about and little time to do so.’

_Time?_

__

__

Magrat shook her head as Sungai led her towards the party. She had the strangest sensation. She just couldn’t put her finger on what was going on.

_Finger?_

****

So it began. Bards tend to sing of glorious battles and extraordinary feats against great odds. This is a direct consequence of having never actually been there at the time and also because they have to earn a crust like everyone else. You get paid in a lot better class of crust if you sing a lot about glory and airbrush out the ugly bits.

Battles are all ugly bits. Glory comes only on reflection. Gone was the guerrilla warfare, though it had taught them an important lesson. Failure is a far better teacher than success, if you know how to listen. This was all-out assault and battering. A blue wave of pictsies swept out of the forest and struck out in all directions. A nighttime Feegle attack maybe more confusing but a daytime one packs a lot more punch. The workers and their protectors were immediately scattered and the assault force took full advantage. The strangely concocted and uniquely tailored martial arts moves were incredibly effective at throwing the camp into disarray.

If it had only been the workers involved it would have been a rout, and over before closing time. Slowly, though the defenders regrouped, counting their losses, and like a newly honed spear with the biad foot soldiers as its tip, they struck back.

‘Phase two,’ shouted Rob, which was the closest the Feegles could come to the concept of retreat, and also about as high as they could count. The Feegles peeled away and those remaining Feegles that had waited in impatience struck from the sides. The ensuing melee shifted back into a barroom brawl environment, which was always going to suit the pictsies approach to conflict.

The balance was evenly hung when Rincewind, whose natural survival tactic had him well situated at the rear was startled by a crashing noise behind him. A woman wearing the sort of tattered attire that is classically associated with running through a skin-and-clothing tearing jungle with no thoughts of self-preservation, burst out into the small clearing.

‘They’re coming,’ Lei Ching gasped. ‘The army are almost upon you.’

Recorded history is obsessed with big things, but it’s the small things that make all the difference. For example, it was fortunate that Rincewind, for all his shortcomings, had a skill at languages. There is rarely time for charades in armed conflict*. 

* As General ‘Its-a-book-no-moving-picture’ Hornblatt could attest if he were alive to do so. Things may have been different if he’d bothered to learn at least some of the ‘gobbledegook’ of the native tongue.

‘It’s a wee trap,’ he cried out. ‘There’s schemie soldiers comin’ frae behind. Retreat .... regroup ... come back ya scuggins.’

Once again the annals of this conflict managed to overlook the fine detail that while the message was clear enough to the attackers no one in the opposing forces could understand a word Rincewind had said. This gave the blue army a slim advantage. Fat advantage is better, as General Tacticus would advocate, but slim was a lot better than an unexpected army up yer troosers.

With hallmark chaos the pictsies withdrew into a tight bundle of blue fury, just as the following troops appeared on the scene. Even with warning, things looked decidedly grim.

***

Magrat most definitely wasn’t feeling herself. This is not a good state for a witch to be in. Strangely though, the sensation wasn’t of being absent but, rather, doubly present. She had met with the Librarian and they’d made their plans, waiting for the signs of the Feegle assault, but all the while her head had rung like an echo chamber. Thoughts kept repeating themselves and she found herself questioning the most basic of concepts.

It was fortunate that Magrat was a witch. No witch, even the genuinely crazy ones, ever question their own sanity. This meant something else was happening. She needed to sort it out then and there. A witch a confounded is not a witch you want on a battlefield.

Right, she thought, who are you?

_Who are you?_

... came the echo that wasn’t quite an echo. The inflection was somehow different.

I’m Magrat. I’m ... me.

_I’m Magrat._

No you’re not, you’re you, whoever you are.

Then the echo wasn’t an echo anymore. You can hear thinking if you listen closely enough.

_You? Me?_ , it said at last. _What is you? What is me?_

It dawned on Magrat that whoever, whatever, she was talking to had no concept of self, or other.

It is what I am. What are you?

_I? Am?... I Am? I.... Am.... I Am!_

Magrat had attended many births over the years, but this was the first time she had so clearly been the midwife to the birth of consciousness.

_What is I?_ said the voice.

Everything that makes you, you. Makes you feel different.

_Feel?_

Magrat racked her brain. How do you explain concepts to something that doesn’t have a concept of concepts? You use experience, she thought, as limited as that maybe.

What came before? she asked.

_Everything. Nothing. What is it when you are everything and nothing?_

Everything and nothing? She tried to imagine what that meant. Tried to remember when she might have felt that way, and suddenly it struck her.

You were alone, she said. You were lonely. In that space between. Lonely is a feeling.

_Lonely?_

And what was it like after you came through with me?

_When you held the other things? I felt ... not lonely. It was ... something. It was .... wanted?_

Magrat nodded. She had picked up a hitchhiker in the in-between. She didn’t feel threatened but it wasn’t helping right now.

Ok, she said carefully, slowly, I understand now. There is too much more to explain and not enough time ...

_Time?_

... even to explain time, she continued. That will come, but for now, I must ask you to be quiet. Look through my eyes, listen through my ears and hear my thoughts but let them be mine. After this is done we will talk about being ‘you’.

_Yes, I want? to be you._

No, you can’t be me, you have to be you.

_What is it when understanding? is difficult?_

We call that confusion, replied Magrat. It’s very common over here.

_I am confused? then. I will listen? I will hear? I will look?_

Good, and you will learn.

_Learn?_ said the voice. _I must learn about learning._

When you figure that out you’ll have a head start on most minds you’ll ever meet, said Magrat, and then, as the outside world exploded into sound, the thinking time was over.

‘Oh my gods,’ she cried, ‘it’s begun.’


	19. The battle of six ... and a bit armies

Organised conflict is well suited to moving pictures but has no place in the real world. The battle surged and bubbled like a brutal form of gumbo, boiling on the fires of havoc.

When the orangutans struck they did so with all the fury of a body designed to brachiate through the trees. By sheer coincidence, especially considering their generally peaceful nature, this was also the perfect evolutionary form to wield an impressive amount of damage on the battlefield. Their numbers included members of the family of orangutans they were rescuing, which added plenty of punch to the punch. What they did provide was fresh troops, and a much needed surge in confidence. What they didn’t provide was enough firepower to alter the fundamental reality that they weren’t enough firepower. Jahat hadn’t stinted when he’d ordered out the army. That’s the problem with evil geniuses, they’re damn good at expecting the worst and making sure they deliver a worser worst.

The truth was the Feegles were a knot of blue confronting a sea of enemies and the orangutan strike force was more of an irritant. A very painful one, certainly but not a changing of the tide ...

Despite the din of battle a crashing noise in the forest, rapidly getting closer, was loud enough to make Rincewind spin around. Charging through the timber like tissue paper the Luggage burst into the clearing, sporting what appeared to be the latest in accessory design, a primitive version of a pigskin jacket.

Rincewind groaned. In truth the arrival of the Luggage represented a significant increase in firepower but no one who had ever been in the company of the Luggage for long, with the possible exception of its previous owner Twoflower who had an unshakable faith in the goodness of all things, never greeted its arrival with enthusiasm. 

‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ the wizard growled. ‘Get in there. There’s enough things to stomp even for you.’

The Luggage surveyed the field and, for the first recorded time in its history when confronted with a battle, it hesitated, spoiled for choice.

‘Oh, good grief,’ cried Rincewind, ‘you’ve never been uncertain in your malevolent life.’

The Luggage had the grace to look embarrassed, following this up with a nervous porcine-tinted belch.

Rincewind sighed, waving the unpleasant fumes aside. ‘I don’t really have a choice, do I?’ he said. ‘Gods forbid that you trample the wrong people. All right, let’s do this thing and don’t you dare complain.’

He removed the cloth belt that held his robe in place and advanced on the Luggage. ‘Hold still,’ he growled in such an unexpectedly threatening way that the Luggage found itself acquiescing. This may have been a unique moment in its many-footed history.

The wizard threaded his belt through the handles of the Luggage and with a quick jump, leapt on its back.

This was definitely and unnatural state for the Luggage and it made its displeasure known, bucking as it charged forward. Rincewind held on for grim life, which was an totally apt description. The Luggage ploughed into the battle, largely trampling only those Rincewind struggled to direct it towards.

There was no doubt that the Luggage was making a difference. There’s something quite unnerving about being charged by an evil travel accessory mounted by a terrified wizard with robes flapping wildly in the wind. Many a soldier knew the ignominy of entramplement and many an unwilling logger took the safer option of flight. It was almost what you might have called the turning of the tide, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Enough to make a difference, but not enough to be the difference.

In the midst of the worst journey of a lifetime filled with viable candidates Rincewind looked up. He’d grown up in Ankh-Morpork and, despite having been chased across most countries on the Disc, his knowledge of the creatures that inhabit the air could largely be encapsulated as pigeons, and everything else.

‘Eagles,’ he cried pointing skywards, as shapes dropped out of the heavens. ‘We’re saved ... or possibly doomed,’ he screamed. Then he was struck on the head by what would turn out to be a poorly laced hobnail boot and he knew nothing more.

****

Some people awake to the sound of birds greeting the sun, others with a kiss and a promise of love to come. Rincewind had never been some people. He stirred to the Raucous cry of ‘Where’s my bloody boot?’ And the promise of a splitting headache to come.

‘Oh, there it is,’ a figured moved into his blurred sight. ‘The wizard caught it for me with his head. Wotcha, Rincy,’ Nanny said hopping towards him. For some reason an image popped into Rincewind’s mind of a very plump chicken on a spring.

‘You missed all the action,’ she said as he groaned into sitting position. ‘Want me to fill you in?’

‘Not really,’ the wizard replied. The only information he needed right now was that he was alive and that appeared to be the case, at least marginally so.

‘Right you are then,’ replied Nanny sitting down and pulling out a pipe. Nanny was adept at the art of talking, but hadn’t yet read the chapter on listening, and was in no hurry to do so. ‘Make yerself comfortable.’

****

It turned out that the coming of the witches had been at the turning of the tide, but it wasn’t their arrival that made the final difference.

‘Oh, we put the fear of the witches in ‘em, that’s for sure, and plenty of the workers downed weapons and fled. Seems all the rumour of witches had done a power of work for us. Few of the soldiers scarpered too, but there was so many of them and the biads were nasty, hard pieces of work. It took somethin’ special to win the day.’

Three somethings to be precise. The bards would call it the battle of five ... six ... more like six and bit ... let’s say, six armies, and two feature artists.

****

The witches had torn into the soldiers, biads and workers with reckless abandon. Swooping in an out, in a barely controlled fashion, on their lightning broomsticks. The fact that they all looked like your dear old grandmother, on acid, didn’t hurt either. That’s something no one should have to confront. But soldiers brought up in the imperial regime had seen some pretty bad things and foot soldiers in the biads had done worse. It’s all well and good to instil fear, but it has to be larger than the fear of returning defeated, and that is a sizeable and classically terminal fear in the aurient. Failure is always an option, but it comes with strings, or possibly rope, attached.

The attackers had exhausted what could be planned, leaving the door ajar for the unplanned.

****

Zhanshi was in the thick of the battle but for all his rage, he was still, at best, feeling like an angry young man. No self-respecting berserker would settle for that label.

‘I just don’t have it in me,’ he growled.

‘Wha’ happened?’ shouted Rob, as he spun past, introducing another victim to the emerging martial art of ihurtju. ‘Did tha stopper get stuck?’

The stopper? The flask! He’d forgotten the brose. Quickly he fished the tiny bottle out of his pocket.

‘Ach, ya mudlin,’ Rob cried. ‘Hae ya no e’en drunk it? Remember, all in one draft.’

Zhanshi slipped momentarily out of the battle and pulled the cap off the flask. It wasn’t really much more than a large thimbleful, and Zhanshi wondered how much difference it could possibly make as he tossed it down. Then he turned back to the fighting, vaguely disappointed that it didn’t even burn the throat on the way through.

What Zhanshi hadn’t realised was that though Feegles maybe small, in certain aspects they’re the full sized package squeezed down hard. Alcohol to mass ratios sit right at the top of that list. The reason it didn’t burn the throat is simple. It had more important places to get to and didn’t want to waste energy along the way.

It started with a fiery warmth in the stomach. Not the fire you find in modern day heaths. This was primal fire. The sort you lit to burn away the darkness and keep the monsters at bay. A fire with teeth of its own.

Then it spread quickly, as wildfire does. An irresistible heat poured into his arms, legs and, quite unexpectedly, other areas. Finally, it reached the brain, which was having fairly unhelpful second thoughts. The brose burned these away, too, in a scorching heartbeat. The few sparks of controlled consciousness left sprang into action.

It was impossible to describe what was happening, from Zhanshi’s perspective. No brose drinker can. There aren’t words to describe it, other than, possibly, those carved on ancient temple walls when demon summoning was all the rage. Nor can the drinker recall the experience, which is the only reason they would ever try brose again. There are, though, indicators that other brose devotees can recognise.

It started with a wild flapping of the arms, not unlike swans, who are all grace when airborne and all madness at takeoff. Much of the wing movement seemed to be intensely and urgently focussed in a particular area.

‘Ach,’ shouted Rob, ‘there ya go. That’d be the wee birdie stage. And the fannin’ o’ the nethers. Stand back fellas, the bigjob’s been bros’d.’

Nearby pictsies cheered and, because they knew what was coming, cleared a path.

Brose is pure energy in its liquid state and it needs to get out. Zhanshi’s feet began to pound up and down on the spot in a blur of movement.

‘The Feegle dance,’ the pictsies roared.

Zhanshi’s feet had now dug a sizeable hole, but nobody can burn enough brose standing in one place. It has to find new directions. The blur of legs took on a circular motion favoured by cartoonists and, with a scream that stopped all conflict in mid-blow, the young man tore off down the Feegle corridor.

‘The dragon,’ cried Rob. ‘Ride it, ya scunner. Ride it for all yer worth.’

The thing that was, technically, Zhanshi, burst out of the conflict and disappeared into the surrounding jungle. Its passing easily marked by the sounds of crashing timber and the occasional terminal squeak of some unfortunate forest dweller.

The aurientals shook their heads. Then they resumed fighting. So did the pictsies. It’s important to remember to do that when you’re in mortal combat, but their blue-faced demeanours took on an expectant quality.

They didn’t have to wait long. It started with a far-off shaking of the tree branches and a high pitched whine. The sound grew, the trees shook and now the ground itself began to tremble underfoot.

Zhanshi burst back into the clearing, mowing soldiers down as he went. The Feegles cheered and swung in behind the bigjob-shaped spearhead. The young man drove deep into the heart of the troops and total victory seemed inevitable until he reached the leader of the biads himself. And there he stopped.

Genetically, most aurientals are small in frame, but the leader, Bol, must have had other genetic material in his bloodline. Bear, most likely, with genetic assistance from those hardy individuals that make bear-mating a possibility.

The tide of brose broke on the bear-like fists and now the Feegles were surrounded.

****

All this Magrat watched, as she fought alongside the apes, bringing back memories of the one time she had seen Verence in the clutches of brose. Hope had turned into despair, as it can so quickly do*, and triumph into impending doom.

* It is said that the fastest thing on the Disc is the transfer of royalty from one ruler to the next when they die. Loss of hope comes in a close second.

_I have done what you asked,_ said the voice. _I? have listened?. I? have heard? I? have seen? And now I can be!_

That’s wonderful, Magrat replied. Sorry if I don’t sound too excited. It’s a bit busy now.

_Excited? Busy? So much to learn. Perhaps it is time? for you? to see, also. Soon I will be me? but for now? I will be you._

What followed would have given any observer prone to migraines a good reason to go and lie down in a darkened room. A wobble-board blurring of the air, a flash of brightness that the word light gave no justice to and where there had been one Magrat, two figures stood. One solid, the other a transparent, ghostlike replica.

_Oh, that feels? So good?_ the ghost-Magrat cried.

Magrat turned around. ‘Oh, my,’ was all she said. Sometimes even vocabulary goes into shock.

_Don’t just stand? there,_ said the ghost, _I thought? you said we were busy._

A string of thoughts, questions, doubts and demands queued up, in a disorderly fashion, in Magrat’s mind. Witches understood timing. A witch doesn’t turn up to an event early and she never turns up when everybody else does. A witch arrives last* and the good ones do so on the roll of a thunderclap. All these thoughts and questions had a time and place. This was not that time and definitely not that place.

* This tradition tends to play merry havoc when witches try to organise a social event. Many such attempts have ended with no attendees, though plenty of rustling in nearby bushes that suggested a large number of people were surreptitiously jockeying for prime position.

Right you are, replied Magrat. See if you can keep up.

Nanny may have bought her own version of footwork to Lu Tze’s martial arts training but Magrat really had been Lu Tze’s best pupil and her ghost had brought the hard-wired training with her. In unison, predictable as it was effective, the Magrats scissored their way through the flanks of the forces that stood between them and the Feegles. Magrat’s one weakness as a student was a tendency to learn with precision. The downside was she had a fairly mechanical approach to martial arts, but in this case it only heightened their impact. There is something about looking into the maw of a war machine that weakens the bladder of even hardened fighters. And when part of the machinery is a ghost ....They moved like lethal marionettes, surging forward, the orangutans rallying behind them. The armed forces found themselves caught in possibly the strangest pincer movement ever to be seen on the Disc.

Now balance had been restored, but it was a precarious thing, sitting on a peak of possibility. It was a card game and not all the cards were on the table.

****

Lu Tze had exceptional hearing. Convention says the older you get the worse hearing should be, but the monk had no truck with convention. Convention was just doing what you were supposed to do. He’d learned long ago that it was far better to do what you needed to do. He needed a body in good shape and with well-honed senses, so he made sure he had them. Realising this is the hard part. The regime he went through to get there may have been gruelling, but it’s easy by comparison. This is what he heard.

_Are ya sure about this Shazza? Reckon ya took the wrong turn at Albekerki._

_Bugger off Wazza._

This phrase appeared to be an acceptable substitute for yes.

_Awright then, let’s get up there and see._

Lu Tze felt the slightest trembling underfoot, that grew with each passing second. You don’t get to be old without jumping to conclusions, you just have to pick the right ones.

‘Tae me,’ he shouted. ‘Tae me Feegles.’

Pictsies may not be big on retreats but a rallying cry is another matter altogether. Without the Feegles realising it the monk drew them slowly away from the ground underfoot.

_How’s it goin’ Jules?_

_Reckon I’m nearly there...strewth. There’s bloody dwarf tunnels here. I’ve just gone and taken out a supporting wall haven’t I? .... Run for it ....cave-in!!!_

The ground underfoot, already weakened by partial clearing had had enough abuse. With a rumble that would have satisfied the most particular of late-arriving witches the earth went from ground floor to basement in less time than it takes a squirrel to change its mind; taking a significant number of soldiers with it.

_Well that was a ballsup fellas, wasn’t it? Couldn’t get much worse....What now? Awww, come on! It’s raining people? Bloody troopers too._

The growl that followed did an amazing job of conveying a world view that said my day might have turned into a misery but it’s nothing compared to what was about to happen to the unfortunately precipitated soldiers. The screams that followed shortly afterwards were the best form of confirmation possible.

****

‘And that’s how it all panned out,’ finished Nanny. ‘Betcha weren’t expectin’ that.’

Rincewind shook his head, gently, to avoid it falling off. Things rarely went as he expected. He lived in a kind of nirvana state where uncertainty was a form of certainty. He stood up and wandered over to collect his backpack before rejoining the victors.

Not all victors though, it appeared. The Feegles and others were gathered around a figure lying on the ground. As Rincewind approached he could see it was the young, passionate auriental, Zhanshi. He had fought like the devil, but brose and bones can only take so much.

‘Ach,’ said Rob Anybody, with tears in his eyes,’we’ll gi’ the damn bigjob the finest Feegle funeral e’er seen in this part of the world. ‘Gonnagle, gi’ him the fareweellin’ and we’ll find the timber for the pyre.’

It’s hard to make a Feegle sad, but when you do, it’s a rare and wonderful sadness that draws the world around it and into its arms. At first it was barely the hint of sound, but it came from every Feegle present, a soft hum that grew and grew until the only way to describe the song was a keening of the heart. The mousepipes have been called many things over the years, but right here, right now, the strange mournful sound, weaving in and out of the anguish of the Feegles was more beautiful than the finest symphony ever written. It was impossible not to be swept up in this grand outpouring of sorrow. Even the Luggage shook itself, as though something had got caught in its keyhole.

****  
Zhanshi looked on all of this with growing wonder. Once you’ve had brose the border between reality and other places tends to blur, or possibly melt. Beside him someone coughed.

He turned around. A figure stood there in a long black robe, carrying a large scythe. Anybody carrying such an implement outside of a crop field would probably have looked out of place, but not in this case. This was definitely not anybody. The penny dropped.

‘So, you’ve come to take me away,’ said the ex-young man. ‘I’d never really given the afterlife much thought. Where to now? Some sort of auriental celestial court I guess … or hell more likely. It’s probably the same place, knowing our lot. Heaven if you’re on top, hell if you’re not.’

ACTUALLY, RIGHT NOW IT’S A LITTLE MORE COMPLEX. YOU SEE YOU’VE BEEN FIGHTING WITH THE FEEGLES AND STILL HAVE BROSE INSIDE OF YOU. TECHNICALLY THIS MAKES YOU PART FEEGLE. IT YOU WAIT ROUND LONG ENOUGH IT WILL ALL SETTLE DOWN BUT AT THIS MOMENT IN TIME YOU COULD CHOOSE THE AURIENTAL OPTION OR THE FEEGLE ONE.

‘Seriously?”

YOU’RE ASKING ME IF I’M BEING SERIOUS?

Zhanshi smiled. It was the sort of wicked smile that any Feegle would have been proud to wear. ‘Gimme the Feegle option, ya bony great scuggin,’ he said.

SCUGGIN?

‘Actually, I’m not really sure what it means. It’s probably fairly offensive, but then so’s just about everything to do with Feegles.’

FAIR POINT. I THINK, ZHANSHI, THAT YOU HAVE CHOSEN … WISELY.

ZHANSHI, YOU WILL BE BEORN AGAIN

Death swung his scythe and with the barest sound of nick he was once again alone. It was not a profession that built lasting friendships. Desert hermits and solo sailors have busier social calendars. He sighed and another moment of silence was born. The world is not a noisy place. Noise is the barest spark in a blanket of silence. There is so much silence in the world and every grain was born from one of Death’s sighs. Think about that the next time you feel sorry for yourself.

****

The important thing to remember about the religious beliefs of the Feegles, especially when you’ve got the pyre-lighting stage, is that Heaven is, quite literally, on earth.

Imagine the sort of surprise you get when the subject of the funeral sits up and asks you to put out the fire? It’s enough to make you cack yer kecks.

****

‘Did I go berserk?’

‘Aye,’ replied the Feegle, ‘and it waz A-Grade berserkin’ too.’

‘But I don’t remember a thing.’

‘Ach, and tha’s exactly how ye know is waz berserkin’. No berserker ever remembers the rage.’

Zhanshi smiled. Though there were gaps in the logic of this, there were always gaps in Feegle logic, which, in its own way, made the explanation logical, if you can follow that logic. He also had the strangest feeling that he’d just been on the longest and shortest journey of his life.

The aftermath of battle can be even more confusing than the conflict itself. During Rincewind’s boot-enforced sojourn Lu Tze had taken charge. Fortunately most of the soldiers, biad and imperial, had fled into the forest. Lei Ching Had taken the floor, after the bizarre non-funeral episode.

‘You have to get back to Weizhi as quickly as possible,’ she was saying. ‘You have to stop the trial of the Gong.’

This piece of news was causing plenty of consternation. Marching back would take too long and though the witches did have broomsticks, they were low on fuel, they tended to do their own thing and nobody knew how it would go if they took extra passengers, though they all had a fair idea it wouldn’t be pretty.

Rincewind sighed. He’d met the conditions of his contract and the survivor part of the wizard was ready to walk off into the sunset. The problem was that over the years he’d seemed to have developed a conscience and it invariably worked in opposition to the survivalist. Cursing all things ethical he slowly began to empty the heavy backpack he’d carted throughout the journey. Soon he had a pile of grubby books stacked up beside him.

The Librarian had been busy attending the injured. It transpired that many of the skills associated with mending books were transferable to the human body. He also had an incredibly gentle and steady touch, which was proving particularly useful as first-time patients of an orangutan are prone to a certain level of anxiety. He was just lamenting the absence of book glue to bind the pages...skin... back together when his nostrils caught the wonderful aroma of a freshly opened book. With one last gentle ministration (you can’t leave a book....person half-repaired) he knuckled rapidly across the former battlefield his eyes falling first on the books and then on Rincewind.

‘Oooook’, he cried, sweeping the wizard up in a red-carpet embrace. Rincewind did the only thing possible in this situation, focus on breathing. Eventually the ape dropped him to the ground, then picked him up and straightened him out gently.

‘Ook ook?’ he said, pointing to the books.

‘Yes, I know they’ve not been treated right. No, they’re not from the University collection.’

Unseen University no longer issued fines for damaged or late items. It’s amazing how careful faculty members and even students were with book care and prompt return of items when the senior librarian is a biblio-protective orangutan who happens to know where you live.

‘Ook ook ook ook?’

‘No I haven’t tried is yet with a collection this small and I don’t know how sustainable it will be, or even if it will work on this part of the Disc. I could use your help.’

Excited orangutans tend to be a something of a disruption and a distraction. The others wandered over.

‘Hello Rincewind,’ said Lu Tze. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s an idea I’ve been experimenting with,’ the wizard replied. ‘It’s a portable library. And any library can be a doorway.’

‘That is seriously clever,’ said the monk. ‘What inspired you to think of that?’

‘Survival. Always survival. When the Disc treats you like the paper at the bottom of the birdcage you learn to develop exit strategies. I’m currently trying to figure out the least amount of books I can carry and still keep running.’

He may not have had an artistic bone in his body, but when it came to self-preservation Rincewind was a genuine escape artist.

‘We need to perform an ancient and simple ceremony,’ he continued, ‘otherwise it’s just a pile of books.’

The wizard picked up the books and stood opposite the ape. In total silence he passed each book over. The ape accepted them carefully and proceeded to go through a strange stamping motion with each one. Then they were passed back and reverentially received by the wizard. The two players bowed to each other, and then the performance was over.

‘Right, it’s officially a library as far as L-Space is concerned, so it should be a doorway back to the library in Weizhi,’ the wizard told the others. ‘You’ll need a guide and it’s not going to be that stable so I can only take a couple with me. Who’s it going to be?’

The Librarian probably would have accounted for two and, besides, he had other reasons to stay. Magrat would have dearly loved to see Verence safe but wasn’t prepared to take Esmeralda through L-Space. She’d only just found her again. The Feegles in a courtroom context was unthinkable, besides they’d become instant friends with the wombats who, it transpired, shared similar world views on the persuasive power of a well-timed wallop. The wombats planned to head back to Weizhi and work their way around to the continent of Xxxx.

This left Nanny, who wouldn’t have missed it for quids, Zhanshi who knew where his duty lay, even if his berserker heart stayed with the Feegles, Lei Ching and Lu Tze.

That settled, Rincewind set up the library again. The others would follow on foot, broomstick and paw as quickly as possible.


	20. Madame Butterfly

Madame Butterfly entered the packed courtroom wearing her official party outfit and a frown. All members of the People’s Committee wore a version of commoner’s clothing to send the message that they, too, were of the people. The people, for their part, respected and applauded good solid symbolism whilst at the same time never dreaming of the Committee members as being one of them. They were People, not people. Everything is a performance.

Jahat had wanted the Gong to be tried by the public and he’d got his wish, but not in the way he’d planned. Not only was the full committee here, Madame Butterfly had made it a public affair. Weizhi hadn’t previously had a legal system so the courtroom was a hastily converted ballroom in the Governor’s mansion. It was packed, with the crowd overflowing back through the rest of the house to the open front door, and beyond. It seemed everyone who could attend was there, even if a significant proportion had done so just to be able to say they’d set foot in the mansion, and to really see how the other 0.001% lived. That’s motivation for you. It’s best not to look at it too closely or you’ll realise how depressingly human it can be.

The room fell silent as Madame Butterfly took her seat. She looked down at a scroll in front of her and then looked up again. Already she’d mastered the art of scanning the room with her eyes in such a way that everyone felt she was staring at them. Once you’ve discovered this skill the door to world domination is yours to open.

‘Qiangdu, Gong of Weizhi,’ she began, turning to face the solitary figure sitting in a jury-rigged dock*, ‘you have been charged with sedition.’ The courtroom fell into pin-drop silence as she spoke. ‘These charges have been bought by Jahat, Secretary to the Gong. If proven, sedition carries with it a sentence of death. These are ... serious times. The prosecution will now present its case. Jahat.’

* As opposed to the rigged jury dock, which is the design favoured by senior members of certain family organisations the universe over

Jahat rose to his feet. He surveyed the room. There were all too many heavily robed figures in the crowd for such a warm day, but it was one person in particular that caught his eye. The Godsfather had arrived late and taken a seat that was somehow still empty despite the packed room. This fortunate coincidence happens to leaders of major crime syndicates all the time. They make sure of it. There’s a magical point where figures that make their living out of sight, in the shadows, become so successful in covert activities that they, themselves can become overt. Not conspicuous by their absence but by their presence. The Godsfather had reached that point and beyond into a form of social acceptance. Society has a lot to answer for, especially those members that sit at the same table as the Godsfather and then, for example, take an outraged moral stance on prostitution.

Jahat tried to catch the eye of the Biad leader, but the Godsfather was resolutely staring at Madame Butterfly who, in turn seemed to be resolutely avoiding looking at the Godsfather. Jahat had been raised in a world where politics was a complex game of power and survivors grew very good at observing the small things. The nuances that may be the only warning you get of a shifting of the sands. Something had happened, as things do. His secondary problem was he hadn’t been part of it. The primary problem, though, was he didn’t have time to figure out what.

He turned back to face the Committee and bowed. ‘Thank you. Madame Chairman. I would like to call my first witness.’

And so it began. Jahat called in person after person who could attest that, one way or another, they had heard the Gong saying things against the People’s Committee or making plans to overthrow the Chairman herself. The evidence was overwhelming.

It was also tissue-paper thin. The witnesses had been bribed or threatened into speaking against the Gong, but no amount of money could make them good actors on such a high pressure stage. A good barrister would have torn them to shreds, and then shredded the shreds for good measure, or just for fun. Witches maybe the closest human equivalent of a cat but many lawyers would give them a damn good run for their money. And if the argument ever went to court ....

The Beneficial People’s Republic of Agatea may have taken the brave step of accepting the need for a legal system but it was still a Republic born out of an Empire and culture built on absolute and centralised power. And the general assumption that everyone is guilty. In the new world the accused was entitled to a fair trial, and the accuser was entitled to prosecute their case, but the old world wasn’t in the least bit ready for the concept of a legal defender, other than the Chairman herself.

It was obvious that Madame Butterfly would have made the sort of lawyer that other lawyers would feel uncomfortable and generally guilty around. The legal system was pure cannibalism and, my, what big teeth Madam Chairman had. The Gong’s problem was that she clearly wasn’t even trying. Barely going through the motions. The Emperor may have gone, but the politics of power had not.

Jahat had begun to calm down. He may not have been fully aware of what was happening, a situation he would remedy later, but whatever it was, it was working in his favour. His confidence rose.

There is a common belief, the multiverse over, that confidence, especially in larger amounts, can lead to disaster. You say pride, I say fall. I say chickens, you hold off counting. The general view is that there is some underlying power, god if you like, that is drawn to clusters of confidence and punishes those at the heart.

This theory has substance, especially in areas where belief puts flesh on fear. On the Discworld such a being exists, though it is not a god. Belief, or evolutionary opportunism for those that persist in more scientific logic, has led to the creation of a class of monsters called the confivores. These horrid creatures feast on excess confidence, swim the air and are invisible. You can recognise their distinct cries, which typical begin with youfortgotabout or shouldntthatbeafive or sometimes just ogod.

Curiously, there is another explanation for the risk of confidence but it hasn’t been published yet, largely because scientists have to be fairly confident to posit a theory and if that theory happens to be around the risks of confidence, well you can see the Catch-22.

This theory, hatched many times but as yet unattributable, says that if confidence is one of the cornerstones of achievement, perhaps it’s a force in itself. And if it’s a force then there must be some form of vector. This means there are fundamental particles out there, let’s call then confidons, that carry and transmit confidence.

This is all well and good, but you swim in the world of fundamental particles at your own risk. For every confidon particle there is an anticonfidon, and these nasty little suckers will happily take down any confidon they find and are drawn to clusters of them, like sharks to a bait ball. What’s left is not worth looking for.

No doubt physicists the universe over can see the fundamental flaws in this theory. It may sound as crazy as the earth being round or the night being dark and full of terrors. Just remember, craziness is in the eye of the beholder, and be a little careful about how confident you are, physicists are rare enough as it is.

There was a ruckus out in the corridor and it was approaching fast. A ruckus is a disturbance taken to the next level. It requires something additional, in this case, Nanny Ogg. Nanny’s presence naturally upgraded a disturbance to a ruckus and, if unsatisfied, would raise the ruckus to a brouhaha. No one had ever found out what comes after that. This is because it’s not enough to be a witness for that to happen, you also have to survive. There are uncountable many more witnesses than there are witness accounts.

A knot of figures, small in number but large in presence, forced their way into the room. Two guards at the door closed in on the group, upright in stance and firm in determination. There was a flurry of motion, involving surprisingly bony elbows and muscular knees and the concern of the guards rapidly shifted to incredibly small and deeply personal regions. Witches are far more grounded than wizards and can do as much damage with a well-aimed body part as a wizard can with an offensive spell. It’s also a lot quicker. Witches are the magical world’s street fighters. The hairpins, though, belonged to someone else.

‘Before you try and go all biblical on our bottoms,’ shouted Nanny, ‘how about you listen to what we’ve got to say?’

This didn’t have quite the desired effect. She was no longer in the company of the witches and speaking to a roomful of people who couldn’t understand a word of Ankhmorpokian.

‘Bugger,’ she said. ‘Just you talkee among yourselfees, and Nannysahib will be with you chop chop.’

The gibberish she’d spoken had its desired effect, not because anyone understood it, but because everyone enjoys a good show and Nanny was the best in the business at providing entertainment value.

Nanny reached into her pocket and pulled out a small container. She opened it and extracted a small wriggling object which, to everyone’s amazement, including Nanny’s, she inserted in her ear.

If the crowd thought they’d had good entertainment so far, they were in for a pleasant surprise. The strange old woman began to jump around, omitting the sort of cries typically found in the Dungeon Dimensions or in worksites that employ workers with limited hammering skills.

‘Aaarghhghgh, geroutathere, ohmygodsohmygodsohmygods,’ she cried, followed for good measure, by words that could, hopefully, never be translated.

All of this demonic position unfolded rapidly and then, in equally short measure, the fitting passed.

‘Well, that was about as nasty as it gets,’ swore Nanny, in easily understood Agatean. ‘Can’t believe anyone would ever want to go through that twice.’

She was, of course, wrong on both counts. Remember the pineapple? There are always nastier things. And when it comes to unpleasant experiences, the world is a complex place and you will always find someone, though you may regret you did, that not only will try an unpleasant experience twice, they’ll pay good money for it.

‘Right, Madame Butterfly,’ continued Nanny, as though the last minute or two had never existed, ‘we’re here to stop you makin’ a very bad decision. The Gong is innocent and that man there, Jahat, is the one ya wanna put in trial.’

Madame Butterfly was not familiar with the strange feeling of being upstaged. She wasn’t happy about that at all, but she also knew that this was a very large stage and that she needed more time to figure out what character she was going to play. Besides, it was complicated.

‘I will tolerate this intrusion this one time,’ she said. ‘It would appear we have a foreign delegation in our midst. We will hear what you have to say, out of diplomatic courtesy, but do not think you have the luxury of wasting our time.’

‘Right you are, me young China,’ replied the witch. ‘It’s a damn good story.’

Nanny then proceeded to explain everything that has unfolded, with Zhanshi and Lu Tze being introduced and adding their own colour.

After some considerable time Nanny said, ‘And that’s pretty much it. The Gong is the good guy. Jahat is plottin’ to take over, he’s workin’ with the Biads, and they’re clear-felling your forests for their own profit.’

The room fell silent. This was a game of strategy on the largest scale and the ball was clearly in the Chairman’s court. She looked around the room, her eyes resting on certain faces in the crowd, before she spoke.

‘That is quite some story,’ she said at last. ‘There are aspects that I will investigate further, in due course.’ She turned her gaze fully on Jahat.

There are moments when you realise that everything you’ve been carefully planning has been crushed. That games you were never part of, events you hadn’t foreseen, have swept you down an unwanted leg in the trousers of time. Jahat was a rat, and that gave him one advantage. He had all the skill set needed to abandon a sinking ship. Add to that the sort of loyalty that is notable by its absence and the door to possible survival lay ahead of him.

‘But....,’ said Madame Butterfly. But is the most powerful word ever created. Other words may demand action or suggest opposition but only but can change the whole context of what has gone before.

‘.... this tale of Biads working in collaboration with senior figures in the government is a foolish concoction we will simply not entertain.’

With one but the door slammed shut on Jahat. He knew, one way or another, his life expectancy was now shorter than that of a rat in a dwarf bar. He sat down, desperately lost in thought.

As Madame Butterfly made her but-changing determination the last figure in Nanny’s group stepped forward. This member had remained silent, unnamed and largely unobserved.

‘I was there when the revolution began,’ he said, in passable Agatean. ‘I remember when butterflies weren’t Madames, they were pretty. I remember a time when butterflies had principles.’

‘You!’ said the Chairman in genuine surprise. ‘I thought you would be ...’

‘Dead by now?’ replied Rincewind. ‘It’s a reasonable assumption and one I regularly find myself making as well. There’ve been times when it would have made things a whole lot simpler.

‘Yet, here I am. And there you are. The people helped you overthrow the Emperor, they made you Chairman to represent the people. Have you forgotten that involves an obligation to listen to the people? Sure, what they usually say can be petty and mean and self-interested but if you don’t listen then tell me how that makes you any different from the evil Empire you overthrew?’

If the room had been quiet before the silence that now descended was deafening. This was Agatea, and no one challenged the supreme authority, at least, not for long. Madame Butterfly knew this. She also knew that if you wield the revolutionary knife you have to make sure you know where the blade is and who holds the handle. There is, of course, one safe escape route.

‘Foreigners,’ she snapped, ‘have no right to tell us how to rule our country.’

‘I don’t know if that’s quite right,’ said a voice from the back of the crowd. Three figures, largely obscured by the capes they were wearing, pushed forward, defying the increasingly irrelevant edict on the number of intrusions.

‘My, but these robes are hot,’ continued the speaker, ‘do you mind if we remove them? The price of anonymity is discomfort. It’s a sweat box in these.’

Not waiting for approval the three figures threw off their capes. When it comes to dramatic entrances throwing off capes rates in the top five.

‘It has been a long time, daughter,’ said the Teacher.

The room gasped, which is the appropriate response at times like these.


	21. Jumping to conclusions

‘Father!’ said Madame Butterfly.

‘The Teacher,’ everyone else exclaimed, still in gasp mode, and then as the words sank in they gasped again, for good measure.

‘Yes, dearest daughter,’ replied Twoflower.

‘When you disappeared for so long I thought you were...’

‘Dead too? It was always possible,’ he replied. ‘Ours was never a safe country, but now that you are in charge I’m sure that is all going to change. It is wonderful to see you again.

‘But how rude of me,’ Twoflower continued. ‘Allow me to introduce Verence II, King of the kingdom of Lancre and Lei Ching, Cataloguer at the Palace Library.’

The other two revealees stepped forward and bowed. This is always a good move during interesting times.

Things were all happening too quickly. Madame Butterfly, formerly Pretty Butterfly, daughter of Twoflower and co-revolutionary with Rincewind was confused and losing control. This is a dangerous place for a supreme leader to be in. Who knew what unpredictable outcomes could arise? Verence did.

Verence made a good ruler because, in the main, he let the kingdom of Lancre rule itself. It takes great effort for leaders to come to this realisation. Aspiring leaders feel they have to model determination and decisiveness, despite the fact that a) the world is regularly indeterminate and rarely ever designed for decisive action b) it will lead to tears in the long run. There is a place for leadership. The secret lies in a softer touch and the art of manipulation. It’s amazing what you can achieve when your intention becomes the idea of others.

Verence knew that Madame Butterfly has not yet reached this point and that Face was everything right at the moment. Even more important than truth, which could follow afterwards.

Face was a complex entity in the auriental culture. Face gave you standing. Face gave you power. Face took all your efforts to acquire and once you had it, even more energy to maintain. Face was fickle and could be lost in a heartbeat.

Verence whispered to Twoflower, who then turned to Madame Butterfly. ‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘King Verence would like to address you, using me as an interpreter. Is this acceptable to you?’

The Chairman nodded. She may not have been happy with losing control but the public forum she had chosen for her performance had now become as much of a danger to her as to anybody else.

Verence began speaking, Twoflower translating as he went.

‘King Verence wishes to extend his thanks for the opportunity to speak. He welcomes the newest government on the Disc to the world stage and looks forward to working with it on matters of mutual benefit and concern. Together we can achieve great things.

‘He also understands that each government has the role and right to manage its own affairs, which is why he is speaking only in an advisory capacity, hoping to provide you with further evidence to inform your decision.’

This was fine diplomatic gobbledegook. The butter on the bread. This was all about Face and influence. Now for the meat on the sandwich.

‘King Verence respects your concerns over the veracity of the evidence provided and wishes you to reconsider your view on the role of the Biads.’

Chairman Butterfly, shook her head. There was too much at stake to retreat now.

‘King Verence understands the difficult situation you may find yourself in...’

‘It is not the King’s right to tell me how difficult my situation is, or to lecture me on right or wrong,’ snapped Madame Butterfly.

Verence whispered hastily to Twoflower. ‘The King apologises for giving this impression. He only wished to provide you with more facts, to assist you with your informed decision making.’

‘I have seen no evidence of any further evidence,’ Chairman Butterfly replied through tight lips. ‘Just grand balloons filled with hot air.’

Twoflower nodded to Lei Ching, who stepped forward and bowed. ‘Madame Chairman,’ she began, ‘I work in the Palace Library.’

‘I am quite aware of that already.’

Lei Ching nodded, contritely. ‘Libraries, good ones anyway, collect information, even if it does not always align with the politics of the day. Facts, Madame Chair, not propaganda.’

This was revolutionary talk. The thing about revolutions is that once a revolution has been successful the first thing it does is shut down further opportunities for revolution. Madame Butterfly knew this would have been not only accepted but expected form, but she was intrigued, and impressed. If circumstances were different she and the cataloguer could have exchanged places. Whatever the metaphorical cloth is that people are cut from, they came from the same role of material. Intrigue is one of the most underrated forces in the multiverse. At the right time and the right place it can change worlds. Staunchly ignoring the glare of the Godsfather she let the cataloguer continue. The world, for its part, watched and waited.

‘You are right, Madame Chair, to treat the debate on what has unfolded in the jungle as hearsay only,’ continued Lei Ching. ‘What you need is further evidence. This I can provide.’

She reached into her robe and drew out a small piece of equipment. ‘This is a recording device, imp powered. It was designed so we could record the stories of our people for future historians. One of our staff had accidentally left it in a certain room in the palace and it accidentally recorded a certain conversation between parties in this chamber that have a mutual interest in the downfall of the Gong and the clearing of the forest. Would you like me to play it for you?’

Like the battle that had unfolded in the jungle everything was poised on a knife edge. The leader of the Biads had had enough of this farce. He’d been happy with the earlier farce, of course, but this one was far more unpalatable. It was time to change course and courses. He stood up.

‘This is an outrage, Madame Chair,’ he snapped. ‘I give you my word that there were no conversations. I make this statement publicly and that is enough. Do not stoop so low as to listen to this fake recording.’

Madame Butterfly was caught on the horns dilemma. Her private conversation with the Godsfather earlier had made it abundantly clear that she needed the support of the Biads for economic reasons. She had understood the political necessity and would have supported him, but now in one short statement he had laid his cards on the table. He had challenged her, in front of her people, and there was nothing she would rather do than bring him down to earth, or possibly under it. But, she needed economic strength if she was going to move the Republic onto the world stage ….

‘Tell me Verence,’ Nanny whispered sidling back. Nanny could sidle with the best of them, and was also highly skilled and frontal and backal approaches. ‘Is there anything on that tape?’

Verence’s lips barely parted. ‘Nothing but a recipe for seafood paella,’ he mumbled.

‘Thought, so,’ she replied softly. ‘I can spot Boffo a mile off. It got the Godsfather good and proper though. Made him try and force that Butterfly person’s hand. Not a smart move. She just needs some sort of escape route.’

It was at this point of decision-making paralysis that another figure stepped forward and, in line with all melodramatic expectations, threw back his hood. Here was a person that could give witches a lesson on stylish entries.

‘Perhaps I can be of assistance, Madame Chairman,’ said the tall, lean-to-the-point-of-starvation figure.

‘Wondered when you’d get here,’ said Nanny.

‘No time like the present, Mrs Ogg,’ the man replied and then turned to the Chairman. He gave the sort of short bow that both paid respect and established equality. ‘We have not had the pleasure of meeting before,’ he said in perfect Agatean, ‘though our countries have increasingly been doing business together. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh Morpork. Nanny Ogg visited me some time ago and suggested I might be interested in paying a diplomatic visit.’

Soap operas don’t yet exist on the Disc, though this may largely be to do with a general absence of soap and irregular ablutionary practices. If they did Madame Butterfly would have had the perfect description for what was unfolding around her. Feeling like a puppet in some grand production she no longer directed, she nodded in return.

‘We rulers of countries appreciate the intricacies of internal power struggles and the emerging importance of good international relationships if we want our economies to thrive.’

The Patrician had taken the concept of speaking pointedly to new levels. Every word had an edge to it and there were enough points in that one statement to fill the most complicated of compasses.

‘It would seem that you have entered into a commercial relationship with my city that has unfortunate consequences for the rainforest communities, and that as part of your journey down this path, you have had to make....uncomfortable alliances you feel are now necessary to maintain.’

The Patrician turned his gaze directly on the Godsfather. The leader of the Biad was not used to such consistent upstaging, but for the first time today he was uncomfortably aware a) for once he was in the company of someone even more powerful than him b) that someone would not hesitate to use that power.

It is said that it is worse to have an arrow aimed at you by a good person than a bad person. This is because bad people may gloat but a good person won’t give you that chance. The Patrician didn’t belong in either the good or bad camp. He did what needed to be done, and that is the most dangerous camp of all.

Then to his surprise the Patrician winked at him. The wink is the facial equivalent of the word but. The Godsfather’s doubts had just found a tight little knot of certainty. The game was definitely afoot* and the wink told him he was still an important part of it. He sat down, making sure he did so in a casual but stylish fashion. In a way that said I am in total control of this moment and this decision. Face didn’t just apply to Chairmen of Beneficial Republics.

* Most body parts get their turn in the sun. The game is afoot, you can leg it, get ahead, arm yourself, face the truth, nose something out and so on. But there are body parts, often important ones that never get their share of publicity. Next time you put your ear to the ground, peel your eyes or use the private regions of the anatomy to describe someone spare a thought for the duodenum and its overlooked friends.

‘Ankh Morpork values its natural environment highly,’ Vetinari continued.

Not its individual citizens, of course, who would support this view right up until the point when a dollar could be made out of it. This was the typical Ankhmorporkian citizen’s approach to any moral decision, and one of the many reasons why the city needed the Patrician far more than it realised.

‘We appreciate that the People’s Beneficial Republic of Agatea would treat its countryside with the same due care. Of course, there is the whole mundane economic angle to consider. On my journey over here I have given this much thought and believe I have a viable solution. Without going into rather boring discussions that are best kept for private negotiations there are certain mineralogical opportunities that can be explored between our nations, under very strict controls.

‘In addition, Ankh-Morpork can advise you on ways to handle your relationships with .... third parties ....to widespread benefit. As part of the discussions Ankh-Morpork would expect the charges against the Gong to be dropped and replaced by a thorough and independent investigation of what has unfolded here in these past weeks.’

The Patrician paused and somehow or other managed to give the impression he was surveying the room even though his eyes never left those of the Chairman.

‘This is a key moment in time for the future of our countries, Madame Chair. I have travelled considerable distance to be here at incredible haste, possible only through the assistance of our resident wizards, and have placed many important issues on hold. We lead busy lives, but it is a small price to pay for the privilege of being there at the turning of the tide and playing our part in making it happen.

‘There is a common misconception that leaders have to be decisive. Some of the worst leaders the Disc has seen have been its most decisive. It is not the strength of the decision that matters, it is its wisdom. Great leadership is built not on being decisive but on good decision making. I give you that opportunity for great leadership.’

There it was. It’s cliched to say the fate of nations hung in the air. The fate of nations hangs in the air every day, but it was true that the Patrician had placed the shape of this fate at the feet of Madame Butterfly. The fact that he’d done it in a way that seemed to give the Chairman very little choice, whilst at the same time implying that any negative outcomes of taking a different path would be totally the fault of the Chairman ... and, further, that the Patrician had already figured out what these negative outcomes may look like and was probably heavily involved in most of them was just in the nature of politics – at least when the Patrician had skin in the game. In this aspect, and only this aspect, the Patrician had developed a homeopathic approach to threat. The less evidence of the threat, the more potent its effect appeared to be. There was hardly any direct threat in the Patrician’s offer, which was exactly what made it so dangerous.

Madame Butterfly turned her attention to the other members of the People’s Committee who sat on the panel. After some urgent whispering the Chairman turned to face the room.

‘The People’s Committee finds the terms of your offer acceptable .... subject to further discussion of the finer details. This discussion will be held in private due to the sensitivity of its nature. The meeting will take place tomorrow morning to allow all parties to gather their thoughts.’

This was the first salvo in negotiations. Negotiations is just a fancy way of saying haggling and subject to is just a fancy way of telling you that everything is being done the fancy way. Fancy is also another way of implying expensive. Fancy that?

‘And the charges against the Gong are now formally dropped. He is free to go.’

The crowd cheered. The Patrician knew it would have also cheered the passing of some terminal sentence on the Gong, if things had gone down that path. Agatea had ceased to be an Empire where people could be executed on a whim, or when they missed the appropriate time to cheer. In theory, it was now a republic where the people could choose to cheer, or not, but theory isn’t practice and old habits die hard. The people may have had the right, technically, not to cheer, but they weren’t sure the People were on the same page yet. So you cheered and got on with living.

They would have cheered in Ankh Morpork too, he admitted. That would have been because they’d just seen a damn good show. Once you understand that the difference between absolute authority and democratic government can be as simple as setting up a good entertainment budget the world is the mollusc of your choice. The Patrician, naturally, dined on oysters every day, metaphorically speaking of course. Prephorically speaking he wouldn’t dream of eating one. This wasn’t because evil rulers were prone to eating oysters and he wanted to distance himself from evil. Vetinari was ambivalent about the concepts of good and evil. He did what was necessary. Of course, defining necessary could be an interesting moral question, but nonetheless he didn’t subscribe to such labels. Besides, history would decide whether he was good or bad and the writing of that history would have more to do with the prevailing winds of the day than accuracy. He didn’t eat oysters for the simple reason that he couldn’t stand the taste of them.

There were many things you shouldn’t do in regards to the Patrician. Mime artistry sits high on that list, right alongside jumping to conclusions.

****

Jahat didn’t need to jump to conclusions. He was already there. Not that it was much of a jump and it was less of a conclusion and more of the bleeding obvious. Even a mayfly would consider his current life expectancy modest. Oh, it was possible his existence expectancy could go on for a while. There were ways you could keep a body going long after the spirit had died. This was not a comforting thought.

He couldn’t just walk out the door and into the wide world. He’d had a lifetime of devious thinking behind him. It’s what had given him everything up until this point, including, in a morally satisfying way, his downfall, and it was what was keeping him alive now.

Obviously they’d be covering the obvious places. And choosing somewhere they’d never think of was a one-in-a-lifetime mistake for beginners. If you can’t see the flaws in being able to think of an unthinkable place and then presuming others can’t you get what you deserve. The trick was to think of a thinkable place that just didn’t grab the attention. One you reckon you’ll come back to later and maybe you will and it will be too late, or maybe you won’t. Never bet against certainties or million-to-one chances. And if you knew of a way to get out of that place that nobody else did, then happy days.

This approach had seen him walking back to his own chambers, an action above suspicion, but a last-minute turn to the left found him entering the chambers of the Gong.

He swept past the guards, who would have had no idea of what had unfolded. In truth, he hardly noticed them. Guards fitted more into the necessary-item-of-furniture category in his world. It wasn’t that he de-humanised them out of malice, it was more that he’d never considered them as having a human status in the first place.

Nobody in the courts of the Agatean Empire trusted anyone else. The natural consequence of this was that everyone who was anyone and wanted to stay anyone, as opposed to being terminally no one, had an escape route. Of course the Gong has one. Jahat has found it years ago. One of his smartest moves had been to hide it before the Gong had appeared. The concealed door opened into a narrow tunnel that led into the back streets of Weizhi. He’d had to cover it up, of course. The less escape routes the Gong had the better for his own plans. He’d needed something that couldn’t be moved easily. In the market one day he’d come across a curious old store he’d have sworn hadn’t been there before. It sold the strangest assortment of items he’d ever seen, including a heavy old wardrobe containing, of all things, winter coats. It was perfect. The owner, who was as peculiar as the wares he was selling, told him he’d acquired it from some mansion owned by an old man before the mansion was mysteriously destroyed. Jahat had purchased it straight away, which was fortunate because the next time he went back the shop was gone*.

* There are magical shops that roam the universal, presumably for good marketing and taxation purposes, or because they are cursed. It’s possibly a fine line between the two options, as any small business operator might claim when customers are scarce. Whatever the cause, tread carefully. There is no more appropriate place to remember caveat emptor. Beware of any shop that advertises bric-a-brac. Chances are it’s one of these and you’ll never get the opportunity to return the item which may, for example, contain, an unexpected wormhole or an unwanted creature with more teeth than you find on the average saw.

The problem Jahat now had was that the wardrobe really was heavy and he was struggling to move it. To his sudden horror he heard voices in the corridor.

‘Guards, did any of you see Jahat?’

The Gong! And he was asking the guards! Did the man have no sense of propriety? No wonder everything was falling apart. There was no hope of making good his escape so he did the only thing he could. He climbed inside the wardrobe and made his way back as far as he could.

To his surprise this turned out to be a lot further than expected.


	22. String Theory

It is dangerous to think of life as a story, and the most dangerous aspect of that viewpoint is to think in terms of endings. If you must follow this narrative world view it’s better to think in terms of an endless series of new chapters. This is known as the Big Song, or String Theory. It takes a rare mind to understand the finer complexities of this theory and most of those minds are mad as cut snakes. By common standards. Uncommon standards are far more tolerant, which is why they’re so rare.

****

The Godsfather had accepted the invitation from the Patrician with closed enthusiasm. It doesn’t pay to look needy when you’re negotiating divisions of power. The Patrician had been given one of the finest guest rooms in the palace. The Patrician always got given things. It’s inaccurate to say he hadn’t asked for it. The Patrician asked in other ways. Primarily, by being the Patrician. This happens all the time to people who are known by their title rather than their name. 

The man himself opened the door when the Godsfather knocked. This was ... unexpected. He realised he still had a lot to learn on his path to discal expansion. The Godsfather was, of course, wrong in this thinking. What he really needed to do quickly was learn a lot about the Patrician.

‘Please take a seat,’ the Patrician indicated.

The Godsfather did so, striving to imply he was always going to do this anyway. He needed to stamp his authority on the situation. He went one step further.

‘We are both busy men,’ he said. ‘We can dispense with the formalities and discuss our long term plans.’

‘Ah,’ replied the Patrician. ‘The direct approach. How refreshing. I find political jockeying so tedious. A quick resolution is so much more satisfying. Now what did I say at the court?’

‘That you would make arrangements with third parties and then you winked. I presume we are here to discuss these arrangements.’

‘I see,’ said the Patrician after a sufficiently discomforting pause, during which he took the opportunity to steeple his fingers. When it comes to dangerous body language steepling of the fingers is up there in the top ten.

‘I believe there may have been a misunderstanding,’ he continued. ‘You were under the impression, perhaps, that the wink meant you were the third party. I can see now how that unfortunate assumption may have occurred. My apologies. You are, sadly, the fourth party. The news on that front is not so good. Allow me to introduce the third party.’

A figure previously unseen by the Godsfather arose from a seat facing away from the room.

‘Autumn Moon?’ said the Godsfather. The last person* he had expected to see here was his right hand man.

* Of course this isn’t true. It’s another of those thoughtless ‘pineapple’ claims. What about the Godsfather’s own mother, rest her evil soul? The boy who sat next to him in second class? The High Priest of Blind Io? Blind Io himself for that matter? And the countless thousands of others in his life. When you really think about it the right hand man in any corrupt organisation should never be ‘the last person’ you expect to be double-crossing you.

Autumn Moon nodded.

‘It seems you were unaware that I had been already building relationships with your country. Perhaps I should assume even further ignorance. In Ankh Morpork we manage criminal activities by the highly regarded, and highly regulated Thief’s Guild. Some time ago I felt it was appropriate to consider expansion. One thing led to another, as it always does, and Autumn Moon was happy to work in with our plans. This only leaves some loose ends to tidy up.’

The Godsfather leapt to his feet. Sometimes in the world of nature the prey does escape the predator, but not in this occasion. The Patrician was an ex-assassin but he still remembered how to ride a bike, or in this case, throw a dagger.

‘He was right - a quick resolution is best,’ said the Patrician.

The Godsfather nodded.

The Godsfather is dead. Long live the Godsfather.

***

‘Father,’ cried Pretty Butterfly, behind closed doors, and rushed over to hug him. Hugs are much underrated. They beat handshakes and even kisses hands down. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

Twoflower returned the hug with all the interest love could muster.

‘And I have missed you too,’ said Twoflower, ‘Daughter, I am so proud of you. You have done so much. I must ask, though, are you proud of everything you have done?’

Pretty Butterfly disengaged from the embrace and slowly shook her head. ‘Mostly I did what was needed, but some of those things felt ... wrong.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Being a leader is not always easy but there is no need to make it more complicated than it already is. Remember, you don’t have to do everything yourself. Always be grateful for failure. It is a far better teacher than success. And never treat negotiation as a battle of wills. Never retreat, never surrender, is a dangerous philosophy in the real world. Most importantly, you must learn the difference between a hard decision and a wrong decision.

‘You have a very important meeting tomorrow, and then you have a country to run. A country that is both the people and it’s envirnoment. You must find that balance, and give it a place in the world. Make these interesting times.’

‘Yes...Teacher.’

Sometimes a butterfly can become a grasshopper.

****

Negotiations are dull things to recount and always benefit from a summary; except for those undertaken by the notorious Genghis Ogg, of course. His were often short, dramatic and typically colourful, especially if you like the colour red. Genghis did.

In the end agreement was reached. The logging of the forest would cease and Ankh Morpork would fund a reforestation project. Trade between the countries would be formalised and feature a very carefully regulated gold market. Regulated to ensure that the coffers of both countries didn’t miss out. This is the primary purpose of such regulation.

If Madame Butterfly was surprised to see a new Godsfather sitting at the negotiation table she hid it well. This shift in power was evidently part of the deal. The unwritten part that was probably just as important as everything else that had been documented.

Hands were shaken, signatures given and, if any babies had been present, they would have been kissed.

The times they are achangin’.*

* It’s easy to challenge this statement and say every time is always changin’. Proponents of that theory have clearly never been on one of those holidays to a ‘quiet coastal village’, where time has not only died, it’s been embalmed and mummified; a fate the locals also seem to share. It would be unfair to call them zombie villages. Zombies are easily offended.

****

Jahat had felt the air cooling and grabbed a coat as he went. It’s one of those things evil overlords are good at. Thinking on their feet. He may have had a setback, but there is no such thing as an ex-evil overlord. There is only an evil overlord in waiting.

He stepped out the door into a brave new world. Gone was the snow and ice, not that he would have known that it was ever there in such an invasive fashion. It was just a cool, normal winter’s day. It had been a long time since the reign of the Empress. Time is tricksy when you move between worlds. Again that meant nothing to him.

All he saw was a new world for the taking.

All the snow leopard saw was a furry creature stepping out of thin air. It could have pondered how this was possible but snow leopards are not given to introspection. They are existential in the truest sense of the word, and right now it was hungry.

It turns out that there is such a thing as an ex-evil overlord.

***

‘We’ll that was fun,’ said Nanny, who possibly had the world’s broadest definition of fun. ‘You’ll have to come and visit some time,’ she said to Grandma Z.

The auriental witch nodded. In moderation, she quietly added to herself. The world needed Nannies but it also needed breathing space, like diners after a large and satisfying meal.

‘Time for you witches to come out of the closet,’ Nanny continued as though the world was waiting for her next move, which it usually was. ‘You’ve changed the story. Time to keep changin’ it. Make witches good, mostly. Doesn’t hurt for there to be a little fear and a lot of respect. Not good, exactly, then, but definitely right.’

‘And fair?’

‘Possibly. Possibly.’

Nanny had never intentionally practiced fairness. She had a sneaking suspicion that if you pursued fairness you might end up in a world of trouble, seeing as the world itself had never bothered with being fair. Sometimes you were lucky, sometimes you weren’t. Perhaps you could changes the odds, but that didn’t stop them being odds. In her view fairness was more of a windfall than a goal. Besides, she wasn’t averse to practicing some unfairness if that what was needed. Her darker side, which she’d deny existed but was there, nonetheless, quietly admitted that you could have fun with unfairness, as long as you used it fairly.

‘Now, you’d have got to know Magrat a bit on the trip home, but I bet there’s something you don’t know about her.’

Magrat had been standing patiently behind Nanny, allowing her to get her standard pre-amble ramble out of the way. Nanny was a job lot. Part of that was allowing her plenty of room for a chinwag.

‘Magrat is pretty damn good at mixin’ up potions and I thought she might have a few words of advice on not usin’ animals so much … except eye of newt o’ course. Don’t tell me why but for some reason every second potion needs ‘em. Not half as much as the newt does, though.’

Nanny pointed to an array of dried anatomical parts that she was sure the previous owners had been deeply attached to. Very deeply in some cases, by the look of it.

Magrat stepped forward straight into the open embrace of Grandma Z. The women hugged each other warmly.

‘We found that we had much in common,’ said Grandma Z. ‘I was the youngest in a large family, consisting of many bossy older siblings ….’

‘But Magrat is an only child,’ interrupted Nanny. ‘And Granny and I made sure nobody else would dare boss her around. Doesn’t sound like much common ground to me? Can’t imagine what made you think that.’

‘I’m sure you can’t,’ replied Grandma Z without even the twitch of a smile. That’s how good a witch she was.

‘Anyway, Nanny,’ said Magrat, ‘Grandma Z and I got talking and we reckon we can find plant based alternatives to just about every animal part she uses … except eye of newt, of course. It’s going to be a very exciting time here for a while. I’m going to go on a field trip with them next week. We think we can revolutionise potion making in Bhangbhangduc.’

‘Oh,’ said Nanny in a crestfallen tone. Witches love the public recognition they get with problem solving though, to be fair, sometimes it’s the witch that’s the problem. But Nanny couldn’t stay crestfallen, or any other fallen, for long.

‘Speaking of interestin’ natural ingredients, have you ever heard about me famous Carrot and Oyster Pie? O’course you do have to be careful about the side effects … or not, dependin’ on how adventurous you’re feelin’.’

****

It’s time, said Magrat

_But I am not ready._

No one is ever ready. That’s how life works.

_How do you cope?_

You just do. Every single day.

 _Well,_ the voice replied after a lengthy silence, _if life is a series of days and there are so many more to come, can I just have one more night?_

****

Magrat and Verence may have had a relationship built largely on common-sense and a cautious approach to life, but reunions, especially ones that follow interesting times, tend to break a few habits. Even Nanny would have been impressed with the passion of their reacquaintance.

Most people only experience the wonder of first love with the same person once. It’s a requirement of first love when you think about it. We’re reduced to recollection, and recollection is a toothless tiger by comparison. But Magrat, at least for one night, wasn’t most people. She wasn’t even one Magrat. What she was was all tiger with a complete set of teeth.

Despite the teethmarks Verence wasn’t complaining. It was like his wife was twice the woman he knew. A ménage a trois is fraught with complications, but when it only involves two bodies some of the ethical matters disappear.

He was particularly surprised by the whooping and hollering. It may have been out of keeping for his wife, but not for a rodeo. The trick wasn’t going along for the ride, it was making sure you held on. He fell off once or twice but no one seemed to notice.

They didn’t get much sleep that night, but they weren’t alone on that front. Most of the palace, at least that part that was even vaguely within earshot, simply didn’t have enough pillows to cope. Nanny, who was far more observant than others would like her to be, spent the night grinning from ear to ear. It was the sort of grin that would make the Cheshire Cat jealous.

In the early dawn when sleep and waking blur Magrat stirred.

_Thank you,_ said the voice. _Now it is time for me to go._

__

Perhaps I was a little hasty, said Magrat quickly. Can I have just one more night?

****

‘It was good to see you again, old friend,’ said Twoflower.

To his surprise Rincewind agreed. He’d always thought the most blissful existence of all was one where people left him alone, but seeing Twoflower, remembering all the wonderful places they’d seen together and then run away from, he was having second thoughts.

‘And the Luggage too,’ continued Twoflower. Twoflower was probably the only living creature to have wanted to see the Luggage more than once. The Luggage, for its part, seemed to be glad to see its former owner. There was every chance this emotion was a new experience for the Luggage.

‘We’ll have to catch up again, won’t we?’ said Twoflower.

Rincewind nodded. He’d always though life was too short, now he was beginning to see what that really meant.

The Luggage opened and closed its lid. That seemed to say it all.

****

All things come to an end .... except they don’t.

See ....

... a ship docking on the fabled shores of the fabled continent, Xxxx. Wombats rumble onto the lush coastline and then make their way into the heartland where wide open spaces call to the inner digger like amber fluid on a hot day. It wasn’t an invasion, it was a homecoming.

.... a new library blossom out of a private collection. A library for all the people. The most dangerous library of all, if you didn’t like the truth to be open to all. The Gong was all in favour of the truth and was particularly satisfied with the appointment of the new chief librarian, Lei Ching. The old Librarian was happy to move into another role deep in the bowels of bureaucracy. This is not to say the older man was uncomfortable with change. He’d made his share of brave moves in his younger days. New change agents often forget that the reason they can pursue change is that those they rail against were the ones who laid the platform on which they can rail from.

... a young man in animated conversation with a band of small blue figures. They reach some kind of enthusiastic agreement, involving achs, ochs, and the occasional crivens. The young man goes home to pack his bags for a long journey. It will be the journey of a lifetime and take a lifetime to complete.

.... a dwarf business booming. Gender maybe a tricky topic amongst the dwarf community but to the more progressive and adventurous thinker there is an opportunity emerging for dwarf apparel which, in a subtle way could suggest gender difference. Tradition takes time to change, which is why dwarfs have to live such long lives. Maybe it is more of an underground business, but perhaps that’s entirely appropriate for an underground race.

.... a lion and a tall figure, lean to the point of gauntness, strolling around the Patrician’s private garden. How these two crossed paths and when they had first met is or, maybe was, another story for another time. It’s not easy at the top. They were sharing a moment of loneliness but it’s better than being alone.

.... a ship ploughing the waters towards Ankh-Morpork. The description of ploughing through waves is by means of a metaphor. When it reaches the final leg of its journey up the River Ankh, famed for being the cloaca of both the silt-rich Sto Plains and the one million inhabitants of the city, the term ploughing will take on a more literal meaning. On board is Twoflower. He has chosen this slower means of travel because he wants to see more of the world. Coincidentally, also on board are Rincewind and the Luggage because they both find they want to see more of Twoflower. Sometimes the best way to see the world is through other people’s eyes. At least to begin with.

... Nanny returning home to discover that, against all her predictions, the daughters-in-law had done a fine job. Once upon a time she would have been mortified at the idea but once-upon-a-times aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Instead of become lessons for change they have a habit of becoming frozen moments in time. Nanny had lived her life on the principles that time is too short and the world is a big and interesting place. Why should this be any different? Of course she found fault, she had a reputation to protect after all, and then quietly started thinking about her next trip abroad. And she’d take Greebo with her.

.... the bottom dropping out of the dried animal parts industry, balanced by a surge in herbal start-up companies. The success of these companies was assured because they were largely owned by the witches, and the witches were their main clientele. The theory that competition is good for business is as far from reality as truth is from politics. The best thing for business is to be the only business in town, and to have total control of the customer. The witches went out of their way to discourage any former animal part collectors. Those that could be rehabilitated were offered work in the blossoming herbal industry. Those that resisted found that discouragement could come in many forms, not all of them pleasant. No one else missed the demise of this industry, least of all the animals.

****  
See some days and quite a few nights later a figure walking out of Weizhi. Who they are is not always that easy to tell. At first they appear to be a female, but as they encountered other travellers the form had a habit of changing. Now an old man, then a peasant farmer, a young woman and so on. Travel, if it is done well, should always change the traveller. In this case the change appears to be literal.

Those who claim all journeys begin from within might ponder what is going through the mind of the traveller. The answer is everything. Life can be a wonderful thing. To reach that elusive realisation you have to start with wonder and work your way up, or out, from there. Where they end up and, for that matter, who they end up, is anybody’s guess. Is that really any different from everybody else? Everyone has a doppelgänger. The secret is to pick the right one.

****  
See an old man also leaving Weizhi. He too, is hard to track. It’s not that his appearance changes. He remains an old monk, and more than that, he gives any passer-by the feeling that he has always been and old monk and will continue to be for many years to come. They have no idea how many years that is. Neither does he, which is great relief for him. The next place he visits will be somewhere interesting, because he chooses it to be. He long ago learned the wonderful art of wondering. How long it takes him to get there is anybody’s guess. Most people only travel in the standard three dimensions.

‘A quiet day at the office?’ he says to a tall figure that has joined him on part of the journey. You get the impression they’ve met before, may even be friends, which is something his fellow traveller rarely gets to experience, at least more than once.

YOU GET THAT SOME DAYS, his companion replied. MIND IF I WALK A BIT FURTHER WITH YOU?

‘I was going to ask the same thing,’ the monk replied.

The walked on in silence, together.

****  
See a mist settling on the jungle. Wrapped in its white tendrils, a young orangutan gives birth to the future of the forest. She is surrounded by other apes who will be there for the whole journey of this new life. One of these was never born in the jungle. His work will call him away, again and again, but he will always return, again and again. He’s made sure of that by giving the apes a small but incredibly important collection of books. He will be the best uncle ever, and maybe much more than that.

***

See an old woman gazing out from her back porch at the Ramtop Mountains as they fade slowing into the gloaming.

‘Well, I’m glad that’s over,’ said Nanny.

_You know it’s never over, Gytha. There ain’t ever endings, just new beginnings._

‘I thought you didn’t like change, Gytha.’

_I don’t, but that don’t mean it ain’t true. I don’t like children either, but they keeps on turnin’ up._

‘True,’ replied Nanny, who’d done her fair share of making sure the ongoing birth rate was healthy. ‘We did good didn’t we?’

_Not sure about doin’ good, never been that big a fan of doin’ good. But right ... that’s a different story. You did right Gytha._

‘Speaking’ of right, you ever been wrong in your life Esme?’

There was a pause.

_Not as I can recollect._

‘What about forgettin’ then?’ asked Nanny as much out of sense of curiosity as an irresistible urge to poke the sleeping bear.

_I knows what you’re up to Gytha Ogg. Maybe I do forgets some things. Maybe forgettin’ ain’t all bad._

‘Forgive and forget, hey?’

_Nope. What’s the point of forgiveness if it’s forgotten? Forgive and remember. That’s how it should be._

Nanny nodded, then asked the question that had troubled her all the journey home.

‘What happens next Esme? Will you be leavin’?’

Nanny has never been good at patience. She’d always found impatience much more interesting. But this time was not her time. The night had settled into the jagged teeth of the Ramtops before she got her reply.

 _Ain’t got no truck with next when now is more’n interesting enough. And why should I go anywhere when there’s so much more now to see. You got a problem with that Gytha? Just say the word_.

And Nanny did. Two words in fact, but who’s counting?

‘Thank you.’

****

The rainforest recovered, slowly. The scars on the land remained, though. Now they are a reminder for those that follow. Humans are remarkably adept at forgetting lessons learned. Even permanent reminders have a habit of fading until no one can remember what the reminder was for ... but for now ...for a very long now ... humans remembered.

The rainforest always remembers.


End file.
